1   3 

§   6 


^lOS-ANCEUfc* 

t/~v-*t 


?  *»          ^s>         ;*,  ^«— '    *  z 
•%0AINft^'         ^%OJIW3-jO^ 


^OKAUFO% 
^*    x^vT-.     £ 

o=  tt  I  ***  A  o      £ 


HIBRARY0A 


%Rwnv3- 


IWD-JO^ 


b    S 

i  3 


1 1 


^UIBRARYQr 


£    5 


*  £ 

§  £ 

ft  i 

*  I 

%  ^ 


*  § 


MEMOIBS 


MARGARET  FULLER  OSSOLI, 


VOL.    II. 


Only  a  learned  and  a  manly  soul 

I  purposed  her,  that  should  with  even  powers 
The  rock,  the  spindle,  and  the  shears  control 

Of  Destiny,  and  spin  her  own  free  hours. 

BEN  Jossox 

Perd  che  ogni  diletto  nostro  e  doglia 
Sta  in  si  e  nd  saper,  voler,  potere  ; 
Adunque  quel  sol  puo,  che  col  dovere 
Ne  trae  la  ragion  fuor  di  sua  soglia. 

Adunque  tu,  letter  di  queste  note, 

S'  a  te  vuoi  esser  buono,  e  agli  altri  caro, 

Togli  sempre  poter  quel  che  tu  debbi. 

LEONARDO  DA  VINCI. 


BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS,   SAMPSON  AND   COMPANY. 

M  DCCC  LII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1851, 

BY  K.  F.  FULLER, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts 


Stereotyped  by 
HOBART  &   BOBBINS; 

NEW  ENGLAND  TYPE  AND  STEREOTYPE  FOUNDRY, 
BOSTON. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

FOR 

VOLUME  SECOND. 


Page. 

VI.    JAMAICA  PLAIN, 3 

FIRST  IMPRESSIONS, 5 

A  CLUE 9 

TRANSCENDENTALISM, 12 

GENIUS, 19 

THE  DIAL, 24 

THE  WOMAN, 31 

THE  FRIEND, 39 

SOCIALISM, 72 

CREDO,        .      '.       » 80 

SELF-SOVEREIGNTY, 92 

VII.    NEW  YORK.    JOURNALS,  LETTERS,  &c.,     .       .       .  .117 

LEAVING  HOME, 119 

THE  HIGHLANDS, 132 

WOMAN 138 

THE  TRIHUNE  AND  HORACE  GREELET,       .       .       .  150 

SOCIETY, 164 

VIH.     EUROPE.    LETTERS, 169 

LONDON, 172 

EDINBURGH.  —  DE  QUINCEY 176 

CHALMERS 177 

A  NIGHT  ON  BEN  LOMOND, 178 

JOANNA  BAILLIE.  —  Ho  WITTS.  —  SMITH,       .       .       .183 

CARLYLE, 184 

PARIS .191 

RACHEL, 199 


II  TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 

FOURIER.  —  ROUSSEAU 206 

ROME, 208 

AMERICANS  IN  ITALY, 226 

THE  WIFE  AND  MOTHER, 270 

THE  PRIVATE  MARRIAGE, 281 

AQUILA  AND  RIETI, 293 

CALM  AFTER  STORM, 302 

MARGARET  AND  HER  PEERS, 312 

FLORENCE, ' 320 

IX.    HOMEWARD, 331 

SPRING-TIME 333 

OMENS, 334 

THE  VOYAGE, 338 

THE  WRECK, 341 


JAMAICA  PLAIN. 


BY   W.    H.    CHANNING. 


"  Quando 

Lo  raggio  della  grazia,  onde  s'accende 
Verace  amore,  e  che  poi  cresce  amando, 

Multiplicato  in  te  tanto  risplende, 
Che  ti  conduce  su  per  quella  scala, 
U'  senza  risalir  nessun  discende, 

Qual  ti  negasse  '1  Yin  della  sua  fiala 
Per  la  tua  sete,  in  liberta  non  fora, 
Se  non  com'  acqua  ch'  al  mar  non  si  cala." 
DANTE. 

"  Weite  Welt  und  breites  Leben, 
Langer  Jahre  redlich  Streben, 
Stets  geforscht  und  stets  gegrundet, 
Nie  geschlossen,  oft  gerundet, 
Aeltestes  bewahrt  mit  Treue, 
Freundlich  aufgefasstes  Neue, 
Heitern  Sinn  und  reine  Zwecke  : 
Nun  !  man  kommt  wohl  eine  Strecke." 

GOETHE. 


"  My  purpose  holds 

To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down  ; 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles." 

TENNYSON. 

"  Remember  how  august  the  heart  is.  It  contains  the  temple  not  only 
of  Love  but  of  Conscience  ;  and  a  whisper  is  heard  from  the  extremity  of 
one  to  the  extremity  of  the  other."  LANDOK. 

"  If  all  the  gentlest-hearted  friends  I  knew 
Concentred  in  one  heart  their  gentleness, 
That  still  grew  gentler  till  its  pulse  was  less 
For  life  than  pity,  —  I  should  yet  be  slow 
To  bring  my  own  heart  nakedly  below 
The  palm  of  such  a  friend,  that  he  should  press 
My  false,  ideal  joy  and  fickle  woe 
Out  to  full  light  and  knowledge." 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT. 


VI. 

JAMAICA    PLAIN. 


I. 

FIRST   IMPRESSIONS. 

IT  was  while  Margaret  was  residing  at  Jamaica  Plain, 
in  the  summer  of  1839,  that  we  first  really  met  as  friends, 
though  for  several  years  previous  we  had  been  upon 
terms  of  kindest  mutual  regard.  And,  as  the  best  way 
of  showing  how  her  wonderful  character  opened  upon 
me,  the  growth  of  our  acquaintance  shall  be  briefly 
traced. 

The  earliest  recollection  of  Margaret  is  as  a  school- 
mate of  my  sisters,  in  Boston.  At  that  period  she  was 
considered  a  prodigy  of  talent  and  accomplishment;  but 
a  sad  feeling  prevailed,  that  she  had  been  overtasked  by 
her  father,  who  wished  to  train  her  like  a  boy,  and  that 
she  was  paying  the  penalty  for  undue  application,  in 
nearsightedness,  awkward  manners,  extravagant  ten- 
dencies of  thought,  and  a  pedantic  style  of  talk,  that 
made  her  a  butt  for  the  ridicule  of  frivolous  companions. 
Some  seasons  later,  I  call  to  mind  seeing,  at  the  "Com- 
mencements" and  "Exhibitions"  of  Harvard  Univer- 
sity, a  girl,  plain  in  appearance,  but  of  dashing  air,  who 

VOL.  n.  1* 


6  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

was  invariably  the  centre  of  a  listening  group,  and  kept 
their  merry  interest  alive  by  sparkles  of  wit  and  inces- 
sant small-talk.  The  bystanders  called  her  familiarly, 
"Margaret,"  "Margaret  Fuller;"  for,  though  young,  she 
was  already  noted  for  conversational  gifts,  and  had  the 
rare  skill  of  attracting  to  her  society,  not  spirited  colle- 
gians only,  but  men  mature  in  culture  and  of  established 
reputation.  It  was  impossible  not  to  admire  her  fluency 
and  fun ;  yet,  though  curiosity  was  piqued  as  to  this 
entertaining  personage,  I  never  sought  an  introduction, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  rather  shunned  encounter  with  one 
so  armed  from  head  to  foot  in  saucy  sprightliness. 

About  1830,  however,  we  often  met  in  the  social  circles 
of  Cambridge,  and  I  began  to  observe  her  more  nearly. 
At  first,  her  vivacity,  decisive  tone,  downrightness,  and 
contempt  of  conventional  standards,  continued  to  repel. 
She  appeared  too  intense  in  expression,  action,  emphasis, 
to  be  pleasing,  and  wanting  in  that  relenue  which  we 
associate  with  delicate  dignity.  Occasionally,  also, 
words  flashed  from  her  of  such  scathing  satire,  that 
prudence  counselled  the  keeping  at  safe  distance  from  a 
body  so  surcharged  with  electricity.  Then,  again,  there 
was  an  imperial  —  shall  it  be  said  imperious?  —  air, 
exacting  deference 'to  her  judgments  and  loyalty  to  her 
behests,  that  prompted  pride  to  retaliatory  measures. 
She  paid  slight  heed,  moreover,  to  the  trim  palings  of 
etiquette,  but  swept  through  the  garden-beds  and  into 
the  doorway  of  one's  confidence  so  cavalierly,  that  a 
reserved  person  felt  inclined  to  lock  himself  up  in  his 
sanctum.  Finally,  to  the  coolly-scanning  eye,  her  friend- 
ships wore  a  look  of  such  romantic  exaggeration,  that 
she  seemed  to  walk  enveloped  in  a  shining  fog  of  senti- 
mentalism.  In  brief,  it  must  candidly  be  confessed,  that 


FIKST    IMPRESSIONS.  7 

I  then  suspected  her  of  affecting  the  part  of  a  Yankee 
Corinna. 

But  soon  I  was  charmed,  unaware,  with  the  sagacity 
of  her  sallies,  the  profound  thoughts  carelessly  dropped 
by  her  on  transient  topics,  the  breadth  and  richness  of 
culture  manifested  in  her  allusions  or  quotations,  her 
easy  comprehension  of  new  views,  her  just  discrim- 
ination, and,  above  all,  her  truthfulness.  "  Truth  at  all 
cost,"  was  plainly  her  ruling  maxim.  This  it  was  that 
made  her  criticism  so  trenchant,  her  contempt  of  pretence 
so  quick  and  stern,  her  speech  so  naked  in  frankness,  her 
gaze  so  searching,  her  whole  attitude  so  alert.  Her  esti- 
mates of  men,  books,  manners,  events,  art,  duty,  destiny, 
were  moulded  after  a  grand  ideal;  and  she  was  a 
severe  judge  from  the  very  loftiness  of  her  standard. 
Her  stately  deportment,  border  though  it  might  on 
arrogance,  but  expressed  high-heartedness.  Her  inde- 
pendence, even  if  haughty  and  rash,  was  the  natural 
action  of  a  self-centred  will,  that  waited  only  fit 
occasion  to  prove  itself  heroic.  Her  earnestness  to 
read  the  hidden  history  of  others  was  the  gauge  of  her 
own  emotion.  The  enthusiasm  that  made  her  speech  so 
affluent,  when  measured  by  the  average  scale,  was  the 
unconscious  overflow  of  a  poetic  temperament.  And  the 
ardor  of  her  friends'  affection  proved  the  faithfulness  of 
her  love.  Thus  gradually  the  mist  melted  away,  till  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  real  self.  We  were  one  evening 
talking  of  American  literature,  —  she  contrasting  its  boy- 
ish crudity,  half  boastful,  half  timid,  with  the  tempered, 
manly  equipoise  of  thorough-bred  European  writers,  and 
I  asserting  that  in  its  mingled  practicality  and  aspiration 
might  be  read  bright  auguries;  when,  betrayed  by  sym- 
pathy, she  laid  bare  her  secret  hope  of  what  Woman 


8  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

might  be  and  do,  as  an  author,  in  our  Republic.  The 
sketch  was  an  outline  only,  and  dashed  off  with  a  few 
swift  strokes,  but  therein  appeared  her  own  portrait,  and 
we  were  strangers  no  more. 

It  was  through  the  medium  of  others,  however,  that 
at  this  time  I  best  learned  to  appreciate  Margaret's  noble- 
ness of  nature  and  principle.  My  most  intimate  friend 
in  the  Theological  School,  James  Freeman  Clarke,  was 
her  constant  companion  in  exploring  the  rich  gardens  of 
German  literature;  and  from  his  descriptions  I  formed  a 
vivid  image  of  her  industry,  comprehensiveness,  buoy- 
ancy, patience,  and  came  to  honor  her  intelligent  interest 
in  high  problems  of  science,  her  aspirations  after  spiritual 
greatness,  her  fine  aesthetic  taste,  her  religiousness.  By 
power  to  quicken  other  minds,  she  showed  how  living 
jwas  her  own.  Yet  more  near  were  we  brought  by  com- 
mon attraction  toward  a  youthful  visitor  in  our  circle, 
the  untouched  freshness  of  whose  beauty  was  but  the 
transparent  garb  of  a  serene,  confiding,  and  harmonious 
soul,  and  whose  polished  grace,  at  once  modest  and 
naive,  sportive  and  sweet,  fulfilled  the  charm  of  innate 
goodness  of  heart.  Susceptible  in  temperament,  antici- 
pating with  ardent  fancy  the  lot  of  a  lovely  and  refined 
woman,  and  morbidly  exaggerating  her  own  slight  per- 
sonal defects,  Margaret  seemed  to  long,  as  it  were,  to 
transfuse  with  her  force  this  nymph-like  form,  and  to  fill 
her  to  glowing  with  her  own  lyric  fire.  No  drop  of  envy 
tainted  the  sisterly  love,  with  w;hich  she  sought  by  genial 
sympathy  thus  to  live  in  another's  experience,  to  be  her 
guardian-angel,  to  shield  her  from  contact  with  the  un- 
worthy, to  rouse  each  generous  impulse,  to  invigorate 
thought  by  truth  incarnate  in  beauty,  and  with  unfelt 
ministry  to  weave  bright  threads  in  her  web  of  fate. 


A    CLUE.  9 

Thus  more  and  more  Margaret  became  an  object  of 
respectful  interest,  in  whose  honor,  magnanimity  and 
strength  I  learned  implicitly  to  trust. 

Separation,  however,  hindered  our  growing  acquaint- 
ance, as  we  both  left  Cambridge,  and,  with  the  exception 
of  a  few  chance  meetings  in  Boston  and  a  ramble  or 
two  in  the  glens  and  on  the  beaches  of  Rhode  Island,  held 
no  further  intercourse  till  the  summer  of  1839,  when, 
as  has  been  already  said,  the  friendship,  long  before 
rooted,  grew  up  and  leafed  and  bloomed. 

II. 

A  CLUE. 

I  HAVE  no  hope  of  conveying  to  readers  my  sense  of 
the  beauty  of  our  relation,  as  it  lies  in  the  past  with 
brightness  falling  on  it  from  Margaret's  risen  spirit.  It 
would  be  like  printing  a  chapter  of  autobiography,  to 
describe  what  is  so  grateful  in  memory,  its  influence 
upon  one's  self.  And  much  of  her  inner  life,  as  con- 
fidentially disclosed,  could  not  be  represented  without 
betraying  a  sacred  trust.  All  that  can  be  done  is  to 
open  the  outer  courts,  and  give  a  clue  for  loving  hearts 
to  follow.  To  such  these  few  sentences  may  serve  as  a 
guide. 

c  When  I  feel,  as  I  do  this  morning,  the  poem  of  exist- 
'ence,  I  am  repaid  for  all  trial.  The  bitterness  of 
'  wounded  affection,  the  disgust  at  unworthy  care,  the 
1  aching  sense  of  how  far  deeds  are  transcended  by  our 
'  lowest  aspirations,  pass  away  as  I  lean  on  the  bosom 
c  of  Nature,  and  inhale  new  life  from  her  breath.  Could 
'but  love,  like  knowledge,  be  its  own  reward!' 


10  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'  Oftentimes  I  have  found  in  those  of  my  own  sex  more 
1  gentleness,  grace,  and  purity,  than  in  myself;  but  seldom 
'the  heroism  which  I  feel  within  my  own  breast.  I 
1  blame  not  those  who  think  the  heart  cannot  bleed  be- 
'  cause  it  is  so  strong ;  but  little  they  dream  of  what  lies 
'  concealed  beneath  the  determined  courage.  Yet  mine 
'  has  been  the  Spartan  sternness,  smiling  while  it  hides 
' the  wound.  I  long  rather  for  the  Christian  spirit,  which 
'even  on  the  cross  prays,  "Father,  forgive  them,"  and 
'  rises  above  fortitude  to  heavenly  satisfaction.' 

'  Remember  that  only  through  aspirations,  which  some- 
'  times  make  me  what  is  called  unreasonable,  have  I  been 
'enabled  to  vanquish  unpropitious  circumstances,  arid 
'  save  my  soul  alive.' 

'  All  the  good  I  have  ever  done  has  been  by  calling  on 
'  every  nature  for  its  highest.  I  will  admit  that  some- 
'  times  I  have  been  wanting  in  gentleness,  but  never  in 
1  tenderness,  nor  in  noble  faith.' 

'  The  heart  which  hopes  and  dares  is  also  accessible 
'  to  terror,  and  this  falls  upon  it  like  a  thunderbolt.  It 
'  can  never  defend  itself  at  the  moment,  it  is  so  surprised. 
'  There  is  no  defence  but  to  strive  for  an  equable  temper 
'  of  courageous  submission,  of  obedient  energy,  that  shall 
'  make  assault  less  easy  to  the  foe. 

'  This  is  the  dart  within  the  heart,  as  well  as  I  can  tell 
'  it :  —  At  moments,  the  music  of  the  universe,  which 
'daily  I  am  upheld  by  hearing,  seems  to  stop.  I  fall 
'  like  a  bird  when  the  sun  is  eclipsed,  not  looking  for 
'such  darkness.  The  sense  of  my  individual  law  — 
'  that  lamp  of  life  —  flickers.  I  am  repelled  in  what  is 


11 


'  most  natural  to  me.  I  feel  as,  when  a  suffering  child, 
'  I  would  go  and  lie  with  my  face  to  the  ground,  to  sob 
'  away  my  little  life.' 

'In  early  years,  when,  though  so  frank  as  to  the 
'thoughts  of  the  mind,  I  put  no  heart  confidence  in 
'  any  human  being,  my  refuge  was  in  my  journal.  I 
'have  burned  those  records  of  my  youth,  with  its  bitter 
'tears,  and  struggles,  and  aspirations.  Those  aspira- 
'  tions  were  high,  and  have  gained  only  broader  founda- 
'  tions  and  wider  reach.  But  the  leaves  had  done  their 
'work.  For  years  to  write  there,  instead  of  speaking, 
'had  enabled  me  to  soothe  myself;  and  the  Spirit  was 
'  often  my  friend,  when  I  sought  no  other.  Once  again 
'  I  am  willing  to  take  up  the  cross  of  loneliness.  Re- 
'  solves  are  idle,  but  the  anguish  of  my  soul  has  been 
'  deep.  It  will  not  be  easy  to  profane  life  by  rhetoric.' 

'I  woke  thinking  of  the  monks  of  La  Trappe;  —  how 
'  could  they  bear  their  silence  1  When  the  game  of  life 
'  Avas  lost  for  me,  in  youthful  anguish  I  knew  well  the 
'  desire  for  that  vow ;  but  if  I  had  taken  it,  my  heart 
1  would  have  burned  out  my  physical  existence  long  ago.' 

'Save  me  from  plunging  into  the  depths  to  learn  the 
'  worst,  or  from  being  led  astray  by  the  winged  joys  of 
'childish  feeling.  I  pray  for  truth  in  proportion  as  there 
'  is  strength  to  receive.' 

'  My  law  is  incapable  of  a  charter.  I  pass  all  bounds, 
'  and  cannot  do  otherwise.  Those  whom  it  seems  to  me 
'  I  am  to  meet  again  in  the  Ages,  I  meet,  soul  to  soul, 
'  now.  I  have  no  knowledge  of  any  circumstances  ex- 
'  cept  the  degree  of  affinity.'  ^ 


12  JAMAICA   PLAIN. 

'  I  feel  that  my  impatient  nature  needs  the  dark  days. 
']  would  learn  the  art  of  limitation,  without  compro- 
'mise,  and  act  out  my  faith  with  a  delicate  fidelity. 
'When  loneliness  becomes  too  oppressive,  I  feel  Him 
'drawing  me  nearer,  to  be  soothed  by  the  smile  of  an 
'All-Intelligent  Love.  He  will  not  permit  the  freedom 
'  essential  to  growth  to  be  checked.  If  I  can  give  myself 
'  up  to  Him,  I  shall  not  be  too  proud,  too  impetuous, 
'  neither  too  timid,  and  fearful  of  a  wound  or  cloud.' 


III. 

TRANSCENDENTALISM. 

THE  summer  of  1839  saw  the  full  dawn  of  the  Tran- 
scendental movement  in  New  England.  The  rise  of  this 
enthusiasm  was  as  mysterious  as  that  of  any  form  of 
revival;  and  only  they  who  were  of  the  faith  could 
comprehend  how  bright  was  this  morning-time  of  a 
new  hope.  Transcendentalism  was  an  assertion  of  the 
inalienable  integrity  of  man,  of  the  immanence  of  Di- 
vinity in  instinct.  In  part,  it  was  a  reaction  against 
Puritan  Orthodoxy ;  in  part,  an  effect  of  renewed  study 
of  the  ancients,  of  Oriental  Pantheists,  of  Plato  and  the 
Alexandrians,  of  Plutarch's  Morals,  Seneca  and  Epicte- 
tus ;  in  part,  the  natural  product  of  the  culture  of  the 
place  and  time.  On  the  somewhat  stunted  stock  of 
Unitarianism, — whose  characteristic  dogma  was  trust  in 
individual  reason  as  correlative  to  Supreme  Wisdom, — 
had  been  grafted  German  Idealism,  as  taught  by  masters 
of  most  various  schools,  —  by  Kant  and  Jacobi,  Fichte 


THE    TRANSCENDENTALIST.  13 

and  Novalis,  Schelling  and  Hegel,  Schleiermacher  and 
De  Wette,  by  Madame  de  Stael,  Cousin,  Coleridge,  and 
Carlyle;  and  the  result  was  a  vague  yet  exalting  con- 
ception of  the  godlike  nature  of  the  human  spirit. 
Transcendentalism,  as  viewed  by  its  disciples,  was  a 
pilgrimage  from  the  idolatrous  world  of  creeds  and 
rituals  to  the  temple  of  the  Living  God  in  the  soul.  It 
was  a  putting  to  silence  of  tradition  and  formulas,  that 
the  Sacred  Oracle  might  be  heard  through  intuitions  of 
the  single-eyed  and  pure-hearted.  Amidst  materialists, 
zealots,  and  sceptics,  the  Transcendentalist  believed  in 
perpetual  inspiration,  the  miraculous  power  of  will,  and 
a  birthright  to  universal  good.  He  sought  to  hold  com- 
munion face  to  face  with  the  unnameable  Spirit  of  his 
spirit,  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  embrace  of  nature's 
beautiful  joy,  as  a  babe  seeks  the  breast  of  a  mother. 
To  him  the  curse  seemed  past;  and  love  was  without 
fear.  "All  mine  is  thine"  sounded  forth  to  him  in 
ceaseless  benediction,  from  flowers  and  stars,  through  the 
poetry,  art,  heroism  of  all  ages,  in  the  aspirations  of  his 
own  genius,  and  the  budding  promise  of  the  time.  His 
work  was  to  be  faithful,  as  all  saints,  sages,  and  lovers 
of  man  had  been,  to  Truth,  as  the  very  Word  of  God.  His 
maxims  were,  —  "Trust,  dare  and  be;  infinite  good  is 
ready  for  your  asking;  seek  and  find.  All  that  your 
fellows  can  claim  or  need  is  that  you  should  become,  in 
fact,  your  highest  self;  fulfil,  then,  your  ideal."  Hence, 
among  the  strong,  withdrawal  to  private  study  and  con- 
templation, that  they  might  be  "  alone  with  the  Alone ;" 
solemn  yet  glad  devotedness  to  the  Divine  leadings  in  the 
inmost  will;  calm  concentration  of  thought  to  wait  for 
and  receive  wisdom ;  dignified  independence,  stern  yet 
sweet,  of  fashion  and  public  opinion ;  honest  originality 


14  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

of  speech  and  conduct,  exempt  alike  from  apology  or 
dictation,  from  servility  or  scorn.  Hence,  too,  among  the 
weak,  whimsies,  affectation,  rude  disregard  of  proprieties, 
slothful  neglect  of  common  duties,,  surrender  to  the 
claims  of  natural  appetite,  self-indulgence,  self-absorption, 
and  self-idolatry. 

By  their  very  posture  of  mind,  as  seekers  of  the  new, 
the  Transcendentalists  were  critics  and  "  come-outers  " 
from  the  old.  Neither  the  church,  the  state,  the  college, 
society,  nor  even  reform  associations,  had  a  hold  upon 
their  hearts.  The  past  might  be  well  enough  for  those 
who,  without  make-belief,  could  yet  put  faith  in  common 
dogmas  and  usages ;  but  for  them  the  matin-bells  of  a 
new  day  were  chiming,  and  the  herald-trump  of  freedom 
was  heard  upon  the  mountains.  Hence,  leaving  ecclesi- 
astical organizations,  political  parties,  and  familiar  circles, 
which  to  them  were  brown  with  drought,  they  sought 
in  covert  nooks  of  friendship  for  running  waters,  and 
fruit  from  the  tree  of  life.  The  journal,  the  letter, 
became  of  greater  worth  than  the  printed  page ;  for  they 
felt  that  systematic  results  were  not  yet  to  be  looked  for, 
and  that  in  sallies  of  conjecture,  glimpses  and  flights  of 
ecstasy,  the  "Newness"  lifted  her  veil  to  her  votaries. 
Thus,  by  mere  attraction  of  affinity,  grew  together  the 
brotherhood  of  the  "  Like-minded,"  as  they  were  pleas- 
antly nicknamed  by  outsiders,  and  by  themselves,  on  the 
ground  that  no  two  were  of  the  same  opinion.  The  only 
password  of  membership  to  this  association,  which  had 
no  compact,  records,  or  officers,  was  a  hopeful  and  liberal 
spirit ;  and  its  chance  conventions  were  determined  merely 
by  the  desire  of  the  caller  for  a  "  talk,"  or  by  the  arrival 
of  some  guest  from  a  distance  with  a  budget  of  pre- 
sumptive novelties.  Its  "symposium"  was  a  pic-nic, 


(:  THOSE    MEN."  15 

whereto  each  brought  of  his  gains,  as  he  felt  prompted,  a 
bunch  of  wild  grapes  from  the  woods,  or  bread-corn 
from  his  threshing-floor.  The  tone  of  the  assemblies 
was  cordial  welcome  for  every  one's  peculiarity;  and 
scholars,  farmers,  mechanics,  merchants,  married  women, 
and  maidens,  met  there  on  a  level  of  courteous  respect. 
The  only  guest  not  tolerated  was  intolerance;  though- 
strict  justice  might  add,  that  these  "  Illuminali '  were 
as  unconscious  of  their  special  cant  as  smokers  are  of 
the  perfume  of  their  weed,  and  that  a  professed  declara- 
tion of  universal  independence  turned  out  in  piactice  to 
be  rather  oligarchic. 

Of  the  class  of  persons  most  frequently  found  at  these 
meetings  Margaret  has  left  the  following  sketch :  — 

'  "  I  am  not  mad,  most  noble  Festus,"  was  Paul's 
*  rejoinder,  as  he  turned  upon  his  vulgar  censor  with  the 
1  grace  of  a  courtier,  the  dignity  of  a  prophet,  and  the 
'  mildness  of  a  saint.  But  many  there  are,  who,  adher- 
'  ing  to  the  faith  of  the  soul  with  that  unusual  earnestness 
'which  the  world  calls  "mad,"  can  answer  their  critics 
'only  by  the  eloquence  of  their  characters  and  lives. 
'  Now,  the  other  day,  while  visiting  a  person  whose  highest 
'  merit,  so  far  as  I  know,  is  to  save  his  pennies,  I  was 
'astounded  by  hearing  him  allude  to  some  of  most 
'  approved  worth  among  us,  thus :  "  You  know  we  con- 
'  "  sider  those  men  insane." 

'  What  this  meant,  I  could  not  at  first  well  guess,  so 
'completely  was  my  scale  of  character  turned  topsy- 
'  turvy.  But  revolving  the  subject  afterward,  I  perceived 
'that  WE  was  the  multiple  of  Festus,  and  THOSE  MEN  of 
'Paul.  All  the  circumstances  seemed  the  same  as  in 
'  that  Syrian  hall ;  for  the  persons  in  question  were  they 


16  JAMAICA    PLAIN". 

who  cared  more  for  doing  good  than  for  fortune  and 
'  success,  —  more  for  the  one  risen  from  the  dead  than  for 
'fleshly  life,  —  more  for  the  Being  in  whom  we  live  and 
'move  than  for  King  Agrippa. 

'Among  this  band  of  candidates  for  the  mad-house,  I 
'found  the  young  poet  who  valued  insight  of  nature's 
'  beauty,  and  the  power  of  chanting  to  his  fellow-men  a 
'  heavenly  music,  above  the  prospect  of  fortune,  political 
'  power,  or  a  standing  in  fashionable  society.  At  the 
'  division  of  the  goods  of  this  earth,  he  was  wandering 
'  like  Schiller's  poet.  But  the  difference  between  Amer- 
'  lean  and  German  regulations  would  seem  to  be,  that  in 
'Germany  the  poet,  when  not  "with  Jove,"  is  left  at 
'  peace  on  earth ;  while  here  he  is,  by  a  self-constituted 
'  police,  declared  "  mad." 

'  Another  of  this  band  was  the  young  girl  who,  early 
'  taking  a  solemn  view  of  the  duties  of  life,  found  it 
'  difficult  to  serve  an  apprenticeship  to  its  follies.  She 
'could  not  turn  her  sweetness  into  "manner,"  nor  culti- 
'  vate  love  of  approbation  at  the  expense  of  virginity  of 
'  heart.  In  so  called  society  she  found  no  outlet  for  her 
'  truest,  fairest  self,  and  so  preferred  to  live  with  external 
'  nature,  a  few  friends,  her  pencil,  instrument,  and  books. 
'  She,  they  say,  is  "  mad." 

'  And  he,  the  enthusiast  for  reform,  who  gives  away 
'  fortune,  standing  in  the  world,  peace,  and  only  not  life, 
'because  bigotry  is  now  afraid  to  exact  the  pound  of 
'  flesh  as  well  as  the  ducats,  —  he,  whose  heart  beats  high 
'with  hopes  for  the  welfare  of  his  race,  is  "  rnad." 

'And  he,  the  philosopher,  who  does  not  tie  down  his 
'speculation  to  the  banner  of  the  day,  but  lets  the  wings 
'  of  his  thought  upbear  him  where  they  will,  as  if  they 
'were  stronger  and  surer  than  the  ballodh  let  off  for  the 


''THOSE    MEN."  17 

'  amusement  of  the  populace,  —  he  must  be  "  mad."  Off 
'  with  him  to  the  moon  !  that  paradise  of  noble  fools,  who 
'  had  visions  of  possibilities  too  grand  and  lovely  for  this 
1  sober  earth. 

'  And  ye,  friends,  and  lovers,  who  see,  through  all  the 
'  films  of  human  nature,  in  those  you  love,  a  divine  energy, 
'worthy  of  creatures  who  have  their  being  in  very  God, 
'ye,  too,  are  "mad"  to  think  they  can  walk  in  the  dust, 
'  and  yet  shake  it  from  their  feet  when  they  come  upon 
'the  green.  These  are  no  winged  Mercuries,  no  silver- 
' sandalled  Madonnas.  Listen  to  "the  world's"  truth 
'  and  soberness,  and  we  will  show  you  that  your  heart 
'  would  be  as  well  placed  in  a  hospital,  as  in  these  air- 
'born  palaces. 

'  And  thou,  priest,  seek  thy  God  among  the  people,  and 
'  not  in  the  shrine.  The  light  need  not  penetrate  thine 
'  own  soul.  Thou  canst  catch  the  true  inspiration  from 
'  the  eyes  of  thy  auditors.  Not  the  Soul  of  the  World, 
'  not  the  ever-flowing  voice  of  nature,  but  the  articulate 
'accents  of  practical  utility,  should  find  thy  ear  ever 
'ready.  Keep  always  among  men,  and  consider  what 
'  they  like ;  for  in  the  silence  of  thine  own  breast  will  be 
'  heard  the  voices  that  make  men  "  mad."  Why  shouldst 
'  thou  judge  of  the  consciousness  of  others  by  thine  own  ? 
'  May  not  thine  own  soul  have  been  made  morbid,  by 
'  retiring  too  much  within  ?  If  Jesus  of  Nazareth  had 
'not  fasted  and  prayed  so  much  alone,  the  devil  could 
'never  have  tempted  him;  if  he  had  observed  the  public 
'mind  more  patiently  and  carefully,  he  would  have 
'  waited  till  the  time  was  ripe,  and  the  minds  of  men 
'  prepared  for  what  he  had  to  say.  He  would  thus  have 
'escaped  the  ignominious  death,  which  so  prematurely 
'cut  short  his  " usefulness."  Jewry  would  thus,  gently, 

VOL.  n.  2* 


IS 


JAMAICA    PLAIN. 


'soberly,  and  without  disturbance,  have  been  led  to  a 
'  better  course. 

'"Children  of  this  generation!"  —  ye  Festuses  and 
'  Agrippas  !  — ye  are  wiser,  we  grant,  than  "  the  children 
'  "of  light;"  yet  we  advise  you  to  commend  to  a  higher 
'  tribunal  those  whom  much  learning,  or  much  love,  has 
'made  "  mad."  For  if  they  stay  here,  almost  will  they 
'  persuade  even  you  ! ' 

Amidst  these  meetings  of  the  Transcendentalists  it 
was,  that,  after  years  of  separation,  I  again  found  Mar- 
garet. Of  this  body  she  was  member  by  grace  of  nature. 
Her  romantic  freshness  of  heart,  her  craving  for  the 
truth,  her  self-trust,  had  prepared  her  from  childhood  to 
be  a  pioneer  in  prairie-land ;  and  her  discipline  in  Ger- 
man schools  had  given  definite  form  and  tendency  to  her 
idealism.  Her  critical  yet  aspiring  intellect  filled  her 
with  longing  for  germs  of  positive  affirmation  in  place 
of  the  chaff  of  thrice-sifted  negation ;  while  her  aesthetic 
instinct  responded  in  accord  to  the  praise  of  Beauty  as 
the  beloved  heir  of  Good  and  Truth,  whose  right  it  is  to 
reign.  On  the  other  hand,  strong  common-sense  saved 
her  from  becoming  visionary,  while  she  was  too  well- 
read  as  a  scholar  to  be  caught  by  conceits,  and  had  been 
too  sternly  tried  by  sorrow  to  fall  into  fanciful  effeminacy. 
It  was  a  pleasing  surprise  to  see  how  this  friend  of 
earlier  days  was  acknowledged  as  a  peer  of  the  realm,  in 
this  new  world  of  thought.  Men,  —  her  superiors  in 
years,  fame  and  social  position,  —  treated  her  more  with 
the  frankness  due  from  equal  to  equal,  than  the  half- 
condescending  deference  with  which  scholars  are  wont 
to  adapt  themselves  to  women.  They  did  not  talk  down 
to  her  standard,  nor  translate  their  dialect  into  popular 


GENIUS.  19 

phrase,  but  trusted  to  her  power  of  interpretation.  It 
was  evident  that  they  prized  her  verdict,  respected  her 
criticism,  feared  her  rebuke,  and  looked  to  her  as  an 
umpire.  Very  observable  was  it,  also,  how,  in  side- 
talks  with  her,  they  became  confidential,  seemed  to 
glow  and  brighten  into  their  best  mood,  and  poured  out 
in  full  measure  what  they  but  scantily  hinted  in  the  cir- 
cle at  large. 

IV. 

GENIUS. 

IT  was  quite  a  study  to  watch  the  phases  through 
which  Margaret  passed,  in  one  of  these  assemblies. 
There  was  something  in  the  air  and  step  with  which 
she  chose  her  place  in  the  company,  betokening  an 
instinctive  sense,  that,  in  intellect,  she  was  of  blood 
royal  and  needed  to  ask  no  favors.  And  then  she 
slowly  gathered  her  attention  to  take  in  the  significance 
of  the  scene.  Near-sighted  and  habitually  using  an 
eye-glass,  she  rapidly  scanned  the  forms  and  faces, 
pausing  intently  where  the  expression  of  particular 
heads  or  groups  suggested  thought,  and  ending  her  sur- 
vey with  some  apt  home-thrust  to  her  next  neighbors,  as 
if  to  establish  full  rapport,  and  so  to  become  a  medium 
for  the  circulating  life.  Only  when  thus  in  magnetic 
relations  with  all  present,  by  a  clear  impress  of  their 
state  and  place,  did  she  seem  prepared  to  rise  to  a 
higher  stage  of  communion.  Then  she  listened,  with 
ear  finely  vibrating  to  every  tone,  with  all  capacities 
responsive  in  sympathy,  with  a  swift  and  ductile  power 
of  appreciation,  that  made  her  feel  to  the  quick  the 
varying  moods  of  different  speakers,  and  yet  the  while 


20  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

with  coolest  self-possession.  Now  and  then  a  slight 
smile,  flickering  over  her  countenance,  as  lightning  plays 
on  the  surface  of  a  cloud,  marked  the  inward  process 
wherehy  she  was  harmonizing  in  equilibrium  opposing 
thoughts.  And,  as  occasion  offered,  a  felicitous  quota- 
tion, pungent  apothegm,  or  symbolic  epithet,  dropped 
unawares  in  undertone,  showed  how  swiftly  scattered 
rays  were  brought  in  her  mind  to  a  focus. 

When  her  turn  came,  by  a  graceful  transition  she 
resumed  the  subject  where  preceding  speakers  had 
left  it,  and,  briefly  summing  up  their  results,  pro- 
ceeded to  unfold  her  own  view.  Her  opening  was 
deliberate,  like  the  progress  of  some  massive  force  gain- 
ing its  momentum ;  but  as  she  felt  her  way,  and  mov- 
ing in  a  congenial  element,  the  sweep  of  her  speech 
became  grand.  The  style  of  her  eloquence  was  senten- 
tious, free  from  prettiness,  direct,  vigorous,  charged  with 
vitality.  Articulateness,  just  emphasis  and  varied  accent, 
brought  out  most  delicate  shades  and  brilliant  points  of 
meaning,  while  a  rhythmical  collocation  of  words  gave  a 
finished  form  to  every  thought.  She  was  affluent  in 
historic  illustration  and  literary  allusion,  as  well  as  in 
novel  hints.  She  knew  how  to  concentrate  into  racy 
phrases  the  essential  truth  gathered  from  wide  research, 
and  distilled  with  patient  toil ;  and  by  skilful  treatment 
she  could  make  green  again  the  wastes  of  common- 
place. Her  statements,  however  rapid,  showed  breadth 
of  comprehension,  ready  memory,  impartial  judgment, 
nice  analysis  of  differences,  power  of  penetrating  through 
surfaces  to  realities,  fixed  regard  to  central  laws  and 
habitual  communion  with  the  Life  of  life.  Critics, 
indeed,  might  have  been  tempted  to  sneer  at  a  certain 
oracular  grandiloquence,  that  bore  away  her  soberness 


RARE    TRAITS.  21 

in  moments  of  elation ;  though  even  the  most  captious 
must  presently  have  smiled  at  the  humor  of  her  descrip- 
tive touches,  her  dexterous  exposure  of  folly  and  pre- 
tension, the  swift  stroke  of  her  bright  wit,  her  shrewd 
discernment,  promptitude,  and  presence  of  mind.  The 
reverential,  too,  might  have  been  pained  at  the  stern- 
ness wherewith  popular  men,  measures,  and  established 
customs,  were  tried  and  found  guilty,  at  her  tribunal ; 
but  even  while  blaming  her  aspirations  as  rash,  rev- 
olutionary and  impractical,  no  honest  conservative 
could  fail  to  recognize  the  sincerity  of  her  aim.  And 
every  deep  observer  of  character  would  have  found  the 
explanation  of  what  seemed  vehement  or  too  high- 
strung,  in  the  longing  of  a  spirited  woman  to  break 
every  trammel  that  checked  her  growth  or  fettered  her 
movement. 

In  conversations  like  these,  one  saw  that  the  rich- 
ness of  Margaret's  genius  resulted  from  a  rare  combi- 
nation of  opposite  qualities.  To  her  might  have  been 
well  applied  the  words  first  used  as  describing  George 
Sand :  "  Thou  large-brained  Woman,  and  large-hearted 
Man."  She  blended  in  closest  union  and  swift  inter- 
play feminine  receptiveness  with  masculine  energy. 
She  was  at  once  impressible  and  creative,  impulsive 
and  deliberate,  pliant  in  sympathy  yet  firmly  self-cen- 
tred, confidingly  responsive  while  commanding  in 
originality.  By  the  vivid  intensity  of  her  conceptions, 
she  brought  out  in  those  around  their  own  conscious- 
ness, and,  by  the  glowing  vigor  of  her  intellect,  roused 
into  action  their  torpid  powers.  On  the  other  hand,  she 
reproduced  a  truth,  whose  germ  had  just  been  imbibed 
from  others,  moulded  after  her  own  image  and  quick- 
ened by  her  own  life,  with  marvellous  rapidity.  And 


22  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

the  presence  of  congenial  minds  so  stimulated  the  pro- 
lific power  of  her  imagination,  that  she  was  herself 
astonished  at  the  fresh  beauty  of  her  new-born 
thoughts.  l  There  is  a  mortifying  sense,'  she  writes, 
'of  having  played  the  Mirabeau  after  a  talk  with  a 
1  circle  of  intelligent  persons.  They  come  with  a  store 
'of  acquired  knowledge  and  reflection,  on  the  subject 
'in  debate,  about  which  I  may  know  little,  and  have 
'  reflected  less ;  yet,  by  mere  apprehensiveness  and 
'  prompt  intuition,  I  may  appear  their  superior.  Spon- 
'  taneously  I  appropriate  all  their  material,  and  turn  it  to 
'  my  own  ends,  as  if  it  was  my  inheritance  from  a  long 
'train  of  ancestors.  Rays  of  truth  flash  out  at  the 
'  moment,  and  they  are  startled  by  the  light  thrown 
'over  their  familiar  domain.  Still  they  are  gainers, 
Jfor  I  give  them  new  impulse,  and  they  go  on  their 
'  way  rejoicing  in  the  bright  glimpses  they  have  caught. 
'I  should  despise  myself,  if  I  purposely  appeared  thus 
'  brilliant,  but  I  am  inspired  as  by  a  power  higher  than 
'  my  own.'  All  friends  will  bear  witness  to  the  strict  fidel- 
ity of  this  sketch.  There  were  seasons  when  she  seemed 
borne  irresistibly  on  to  the  verge  of  prophecy,  and  fully 
embodied  one's  notion  of  a  sibyl. 

Admirable  as  Margaret  appeared  in  public,  I  was  yet 
more  affected  by  this  peculiar  mingling  of  impressibility 
and  power  to  influence,  when  brought  within  her  pri- 
vate sphere.  I  know  not  how  otherwise  to  describe  her 
subtle  charm,  than  by  saying  that  she  was  at  once  a 
clairvoyante  and  a  magnetizer.  She  read  another's 
bosom-secret,  and  she  imparted  of  her  own  force.  She 
interpreted  the  cipher  in  the  talisman  of  one's  destiny, 
that  he  had  tried  in  vain  to  spell  alone;  by  sympathy  she 
brought  out  the  invisible  characters  traced  by  experi- 


PENETRATION.  23 

ence  on  his  heart;  and  in  the  mirror  of  her  conscience 
he  might  see  the  image  of  his  very  self,  as  dwarfed  in 
actual  appearance,  or  developed  after  the  divine  ideal. 
Her  sincerity  was  terrible.  In  her  frank  exposure  no 
foible  was  spared,  though  by  her  very  reproof  she  roused 
dormant  courage  and  self-confidence.  And  so  unerring 
seemed  her  insight,  that  her  companion  felt  as  if  stand- 
ing bare  before  a  disembodied  spirit,  and  communicated 
without  reserve  thoughts  and  emotions,  which,  even  to 
himself,  he  had  scarcely  named. 

This  penetration  it  was  that  caused  Margaret  to  be 
so  dreaded,  in  general  society,  by  superficial  observers. 
They,  who  came  nigh  enough  to  test  the  quality  of  her 
spirit,  could  not  but  perceive  how  impersonal  was  her 
justice ;  but,  contrasted  with  the  dead  flat  of  conven- 
tional tolerance,  her  candor  certainly  looked  rugged' 
and  sharp.  The  frivolous  were  annoyed  at  her  con- 
tempt of  their  childishness,  the  ostentatious  piqued  at 
her  insensibility  to  their  show,  and  the  decent  scared 
lest  they  should  be  stripped  of  their  shams;  partisans 
were  vexed  by  her  spurning  their  leaders ;  and  profes- 
sional sneerers,  —  civil  in  public  to  those  whom  in  pri- 
vate they  slandered,  —  could  not  pardon  the  severe  truth 
whereby  she  drew  the  sting  from  their  spite.  Indeed, 
how  could  so  undisguised  a  censor  but  shock  the  preju- 
dices of  the  moderate,  and  wound  the  sensibilities  of  the 
diffident ;  how  but  enrage  the  worshippers  of  new  demi- 
gods in  literature,  art  and  fashion,  whose  pet  shrines  she 
demolished ;  how  but  cut  to  the  quick,  alike  by  silence 
or  by  speech,  the  self-love  of  the  vain,  whose  claims  she 
ignored  ?  So  gratuitous,  indeed^  appeared  her  hypercriti- 
cism,  that  I  could  not  refrain  from  remonstrance,  and 
to  one  of  my  appeals  she  thus  replied:  'If  a  horror  for 


24  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'the  mania  of  little  great  men,  so  prevalent  in  this  coun- 
'  try, — if  aversion  to  the  sentimental  exaggerations  to 
'  which  so  many  minds  are  prone,  —  if  finding  that  most 
;men  praise,  as  well  as  blame,  too  readily,  and  that 
1  overpraise  desecrates  the  lips  and  makes  the  hreath 
'  unworthy  to  blow  the  coal  of  devotion,  —  if  rejection  of 

'  the s  and  s,  from   a  sense  that   the  priestess 

1  must  reserve  her  paeans  for  Apollo,  —  if  untiring  effort 
'  to  form  my  mind  to  justice  and  revere  only  the  super- 
'  latively  good,  that  my  praise  might  be  praise ;  if  this  be 
1  to  offend,  then  have  I  offended.' 

V. 

THE  DIAL. 

• 

SEVERAL  talks  among  the  Transcendentalists,  during 

the  autumn  of  1839,  turned  upon  the  propriety  of  estab- 
lishing an  organ  for  the  expression  of  freer  views  than 
the  conservative  journals  were  ready  to  welcome.  The 
result  was  the  publication  of  the  "Dial,"  the  first  num- 
ber of  which  appeared  early  in  the  summer  of  1840, 
under  the  editorship  of  Margaret,  aided  by  R.  W.  Em- 
erson and  George  Ripley.  How  moderate  were  her 
own  hopes,  in  regard  to  this  enterprise,  is  clearly  enough 
shown  by  passages  from  her  correspondence. 

' Jamaica  Plain,  22d  March,  1840.  *  *  *  I  have  a 
'  great  deal  written,  but,  as  I  read  it  over,  scarce  a  word 
'  seems  pertinent  to  the  place  or  time.  When  I  meet 
'  people,  it  is  easy  to  adapt  myself  to  them ;  but  when  I 
write,  it  is  into  another  world,  —  not  a  better  one,  per- 
'haps,  but  one  with  very  dissimilar  habits  of  thought  tc 


THE    DIAL.  25 

'  this  wherein  I  am  domesticated.  How  much  those  of 
'us,  who  have  been  formed  by  the  European  mind, 
'have  to  unlearn,  and  lay  aside,  if  we  would  act  here! 
'  I  would  fain  do  something  worthily  that  belonged  to  the 
'  country  where  I  was  born,  but  most  times  I  fear  it  may 
'  not  be. 

'  What  others  can  do,  —  whether  all  that  has  been 
{ said  is  the  mere  restlessness  of  discontent,  or  there  are 
'  thoughts  really  struggling  for  utterance, — will  be  tested 
'  now.  A  perfectly  free  organ  is  to  be  offered  for  the 
'  expression  of  individual  thought  and  character.  There 
'  are  no  party  measures  to  be  carried,  no  particular  stand- 
'  ard  to  be  set  up.  A  fair,  calm  tone,  a  recognition  of 
'  universal  principles,  will,  I  hope,  pervade  the  essays  in 
'  every  form.  I  trust  there  will  be  a  spirit  neither  of 
'dogmatism  nor  of  compromise,  and  that  this  journal 
'  will  aim,  not  at  leading  public  opinion,  but  at  stimulat- 
'ing  each  man  to  judge  for  himself,  and  to  think  more 
'  deeply  and  more  nobly,  by  letting  him  see  how  some 
'  minds  are  kept  alive  by  a  wise  self-trust.  We  must  not 
'  be  sanguine  as  to  the  amount  of  talent  which  will  be 
'  brought  to  bear  on  this  publication.  All  concerned  are 
'  rather  indifferent,  and  there  is  no  great  promise  for  the 
'  present.  We  cannot  show  high  culture,  and  I  doubt 
'about  vigorous  thought.  But  we  shall  manifest  free 
'  action  as  far  as  it  goes,  and  a  high  aim.  It  were  much 
'if  a  periodical  could  be  kept  open,  not  to  accomplish 
'  any  outward  object,  but  merely  to  afford  an  avenue  for 
'  what  of  liberal  and  calm  thought  might  be  originated 
'  among  us,  by  the  wants  of  individual  minds.'  *  * 

' 'April  19,  1840. — Things  go  on  pretty  well,  but  doubt- 
'  less  people  will  be  disappointed,  for  they  seem  to  be  look- 


26  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'  ing  for  the  Gospel  of  Transcendentalism.  It  may  prove 
'  as  Jouffroy  says  it  was  with  the  successive  French  min- 
'istries:  "The  public  wants  something  positive,  and, 
'"seeing  that  such  and  such  persons  are  excellent  at 
' "  fault-finding,  it  raises  them  to  be  rulers,  when,  lo ! 
' "  they  have  no  noble  and  full  Yea,  to  match  their 
'"shrill  and  bold  Nay,  and  so  are  pulled  down  again." 
'  Mr.  Emerson  knows  best  what  he  wants ;  but  he  has 
'  already  said  it  in  various  ways.  Yet,  this  experiment 
'  is  well  worth  trying ;  hearts  beat  so  high,  they  must 
'  be  full  of  something,  and  here  is  a  way  to  breathe  it 
'out  quite  freely.  It  is  for  dear  New  England  that  I 
'  want  this  review.  For  myself,  if  I  had  wished  to  write 
'  a  few  pages  now  and  then,  there  were  ways  and  means 
'enough  of  disposing  of  them.  But  in  truth  I  have  not 
'  much  to  say ;  for  since  I  have  had  leisure  to  look  at 
'  myself,  I  find  that,  so  far  from  being  an  original  genius, 
'  I  have  not  yet  learned  to  think  to  any  depth,  and  that 
'  the  utmost  I  have  done  in  life  has  been  to  form  my 
'  character  to  a  certain  consistency,  cultivate  my  tastes, 
'  and  learn  to  tell  the  truth  with  a  little  better  grace 
'  than  I  did  at  first.  For  this  the  world  will  not  care 
'  much,  so  I  shall  hazard  a  few  critical  remarks  only,  or 
'an  unpretending  chalk  sketch  now  and  then,  till  I  have 
'learned  to  do  something.  There  will  be  beautiful  poe- 
'sies;  about  prose  we  know  not  yet  so  well.  We  shall 
'  be  the  means  of  publishing  the  little  Charles  Emerson 
'  left  as  a  mark  of  his  noble  course,  and,  though  it  lies 
'  in  fragments,  all  who  read  will  be  gainers.' 

'  1840.  —  Since  the  Revolution,  there  has  been  little, 
'  in  the  circumstances  of  this  country,  to  call  out  the 
'  higher  sentiments.  The  effect  of  continued  prosperity 


NEW    ENGLAND.  27 

'  is  the  same  on  nations  as  on  individuals,  —  it  jieaves  the 
'nobler  faculties  undeveloped.  The  need  of  bringing 
'  out  the  physical  resources  of  a  vast  extent  of  country, 
'  the  commercial  and  political  fever  incident  to  our  insti- 
'  tutions,  tend  to  fix  the  eyes  of  men  on  what  is  local 
'and  temporary,  on  the  external  advantages  of  their 
'condition.  The  superficial  diffusion  of  knowledge, 
'unless  attended  by  a  correspondent  deepening  of  its 
'  sources,  is  likely  to  vulgarize  rather  than  to  raise  the 
'thought  of  a  nation,  depriving  them  of  another  sort  of 
'education  through  sentiments  of  reverence,  and  lead- 
'ing  the  multitude  to  believe  themselves  capable  of  judg- 
'  ing  what  they  but  dimly  discern.  They  see  a  wide 
'surface,  and  forget  the  difference  between  seeing  and 
'  knowing.  In  this  hasty  way  of  thinking  and  living 
'  they  traverse  so  much  ground  that  they  forget  that 
'  not  the  sleeping  railroad  passenger,  but  the  botanist, 
'  the  geologist,  the  poet,  really  see  the  country,  and  that, 
'  to  the  former,  "a  miss  is  as  good  as  a  mile."  In  a  word, 
'the  tendency  of  circumstances  has  been  to  make  our 
'people  superficial,  irreverent,  and  more  anxious  to  get  a 
'  living  than  to  live  mentally  and  morally.  This  ten- 
'  dency  is  no  way  balanced  by  the  slight  literary  culture 
'  common  here,  which  is  mostly  English,  and  consists  in 
'  a  careless  reading  of  publications  of  the  day,  having 
'  the  same  utilitarian  tendency  with  our  own  proceed- 
'  ings.  The  infrequency  of  acquaintance  with  any  of 
'  the  great  father's  of  English  lore  marks  this  state  of 
'  things. 

'New  England  is  now  old  enough, — some  there 
'  have  leisure  enough,  —  to  look  at  all  this  ;  and  the 
'  consequence  is  a  violent  reaction,  in  a  small  minority, 
'  against  a  mode  of  culture  that  rears  such  fruits. 


28  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

e  They  see  that  political  freedom  does  not  necessarily 
'  produce  liberality  of  mind,  nor  freedom  in  church 
'institutions  —  vital  religion;  and,  seeing  that  these 
'  changes  cannot  be  wrought  from  without  inwards,  they 
'  are  trying  to  quicken  the  soul,  that  they  may  work 
'•  from  within  outwards.  Disgusted  with  the  vulgarity 
1  of  a  commercial  aristocracy,  they  become  radicals ;  dis- 
'  gusted  with  the  materialistic  working  of  "rational"  reli- 
'  gion,  they  become  mystics.  They  quarrel  with  all  that 
'  is,  because  it  is  not  spiritual  enough.  They  would,  per- 
'  haps,  be  patient  if  they  thought  this  the  mere  sensual- 
'  ity  of  childhood  in  our  nation,  which  it  might  outgrow; 
'  but  they  think  that  they  see  the  evil  widening,  deepen- 
'  ing, — not  only  debasing  the  life,  but  corrupting  the 
'  thought  of  our  people,  and  they  feel  that  if  they  know 
'  not  well  what  should  be  done,  yet  that  the  duty  of 
'  every  good  man  is  to  utter  a  protest  against  what  is 
'done  amiss. 

'Is  this  protest  undiscriminating?  are  these  opinions 
'crude?  do  these  proceedings  threaten  to  sap  the  bul- 
'  warks  on  which  men  at  present  depend  ?  I  confess 
£  it  all,  yet  I  see  in  these  men  promise  of  a  better  wis- 
'dom  than  in  their  opponents.  Their  hope  for  man  is 
'grounded  on  his  destiny  as  an  immortal  soul,  and  not  as 
'  a  mere  comfort-loving  inhabitant  of  earth,  or  as  a  sub- 
'  scriber  to  the  social  contract.  It  was  not  meant  that 
'  the  soul  should  cultivate  the  earth,  but  that  the  earth 
'  should  educate  and  maintain  the  soul.  Man  is  not 
'  made  for  society,  but  society  is  made  for  man.  Xo 
'  institution  can  be  good  which  does  not  tend  to  improve 
'  the  individual.  In  these  principles  I  have  confidence 
'  so  profound,  that  I  am  not  afraid  to  trust  those  who 
hold  them,  despite  their  partial  views,  imperfectly 


UTOPIA.  29 

'developed  characters,  and  frequent  want  of  practical 
'  sagacity.  I  believe,  if  they  have  opportunity  to  state 
'  arid  discuss  their  opinions,  they  will  gradually  sift  them, 
'  ascertain  their  grounds  and  aims  with  clearness,  and  do 
'  the  work  this  country  needs.  I  hope  for  them  as  for 
'"the  leaven  that  is  hidden  in  the-bushel  of  meal,  till 
'"all  be  leavened."  The  leaven  is  not  good  by  itself, 
'  neither  is  the  meal ;  let  them  combine,  and  we  shall  yet 
'have  bread. 

'  Utopia  it  is  impossible  to  build  up.  At  least,  my 
'  hopes  for  our  race  on  this  one  planet  are  more  limited 
'  than  those  of  most  of  my  friends.  I  accept  the  limita- 
'  tions  of  human  nature,  and  believe  a  wise  acknowledg- 
'ment  of  them  one  of  the-  best  conditions  of  progress. 
'  Yet  every  noble  scheme,  every  poetic  manifestation, 
'  prophesies  to  man  his  eventual  destiny.  And  were  not 
'man  ever  more  sanguine  than  facts  at  the  moment 
'justify,  he  would  remain  torpid,  or  be  sunk  in  sensuality. 
'It  is  on  this  ground  that  I  sympathize  with  what  is 
'called  the  "Transcendental  party,"  and  that  I  feel 
'  their  aim  to  be  the  true  one.  They  acknowledge  in  the 
'nature  of  man  an  arbiter  for  his  deeds,  —  a  standard 
'transcending  sense  and  time,  —  and  are,  in  my  view, 
'  the  true  utilitarians.  They  are  but  at  the  beginning  of 
'  their  course,  and  will,  I  hope,  learn  how  to  make  use 
'  of  the  past,  as  well  as  to  aspire  for  the  future,  and  to 
'  be  true  in  the  present  moment. 

'My  position  as  a  woman,  and  the  many  private 
'  duties  which  have  filled  my  life,  have  prevented  my 
'thinking  deeply  on  several  of  the  great  subjects  which 
'  these  friends  have  at  heart.  I  suppose,  if  ever  I  become 
'capable  of  judging,  I  shall  differ  from  most  of  them  on 
'  important  points.  But  I  am  not  afraid  to  trust  any  who 

VOL.    II.  3* 


30  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'are  true,  and  in  intent  noble,  with  their  own  course, 
nor  to  aid  in  enabling  them  to  express  their  thoughts, 
whether  I  coincide  with  them  or  not. 

'  On  the  subject  of  Christianity,  my  mind  is  clear.  If 
'Divine,  it  will  stand  the  test  of  any  comparison.  I 
'  believe  the  reason  it  has  so  imperfectly  answered  to  the 
' aspirations  of  its  Founder  is,  that  men  have  received  it 
'on  external  grounds.  I  believe  that  a  religion,  thus 
'  received,  may  give  the  life  an  external  decorum,  but  will 
'  never  open  the  fountains  of  holiness  in  the  soul. 

'One  often  thinks  of  Hamlet  as  the  true  represen- 
tative of  idealism  in  its  excess.  Yet  if,  in  his  short 
'  life,  man  be  liable  to  some  excess,  should  we  not  rather 
'  prefer  to  have  the  will  palsied  like  Hamlet,  by  a  deep- 
'  searching  tendency  and  desire  for  poetic  perfection, 
'  than  to  have  it  enlightened  by  worldly  sagacity,  as  in 
1  the  case  of  Julius  Caesar,  or  made  intense  by  pride  alone, 
'  as  in  that  of  Coriolanus  ? 

'  After  all,  I  believe  it  is  absurd  to  attempt  to  speak  on 
'  these  subjects  within  the  limits  of  a  letter.  I  will  try 
'  to  say  what  I  mean  in  print  some  day.  Yet  one  word 
'  as  to  "  the  material,"  in  man.  Is  it  not  the  object  of  all 
'  philosophy,  as  well  as  of  religion  and  poetry,  to  prevent 
'its  prevalence?  Must  not  those  who  see  most  truly  be 
'ever  making  statements  of  the  truth  to  combat  this 
'sluggishness,  or  worldliness?  What  else  are  sages, 
'poets,  preachers,  born  to  do?  Men  go  an  undulating 
'  course,  —  sometimes  on  the  hill,  sometimes  in  the  valley. 
'  But  he  only  is  in  the  right  who  in  the  valley  forgets 
'not  the  hill-prospect,  and  knows  in  darkness  that  the 
'  sun  will  rise  again.  That  is  the  real  life  which  is  sub- 
'ordinated  to,  not  merged  in,  the  ideal;  he  is  only  wise 
'  who  can  bring  the  lowest  act  of  his  life  into  sympathy 


A    SUMMER-DAY.  31 

1  with  its  highest  thought.  And  this  I  take  to  be  the  one 
'only  aim  of  our  pilgrimage  here.  I  agree  with  those 
'  who  think  that  no  true  philosophy  will  try  to  ignore  or 
'  annihilate  the  material  part  of  man,  but  will  rather  seek 
'to  put  it  in  its  place,  as  servant  and  minister  to  the 
'  soul.' 


VI. 

THE  WOMAN. 

IN  1839  I  had  met  Margaret  upon  the  plane  of  intellect. 
In  the  summer  of  1840,  on  my  return  from  the  West, 
she  was  to  be  revealed  in  a  new  aspect. 

It  was  a  radiant  and  refreshing  morning,  when  I 
entered  the  parlor  of  her  pleasant  house,  standing  upon 
a  slope  beyond  Jamaica  Plain  to  the  south.  She  was 
absent  at  the  moment,  and  there  was  opportunity  to  look 
from  the  windows  on  a  cheerful  prospect,  over  orchards 
and  meadows,  to  the  wooded  hills  and  the  western  sky. 
Presently  Margaret  appeared,  bearing  in  her  hand  a  vase 
of  flowers,  which  she  had  been  gathering  in  the  garden. 
After  exchange  of  greetings,  her  first  words  were  of  the 
flowers,  each  of  which  was  symbolic  to  her  of  emotion, 
and  associated  with  the  memory  of  some  friend.  I 
remember  her  references  only  to  the  Daphne  Odora,  the 
Provence  Rose,  the  sweet-scented  Verbena,  and  the  Helio- 
trope; the  latter  being  her  chosen  emblem,  true  bride 
of  the  sun  that  it  is. 

From  flowers  she  passed  to  engravings  hanging  round 
the  room.  '  Here,'  said  she,  '  are  Dante  and  Beatrice. 

'  "  Approach,  and  know  that  I  am  Beatrice. 

'  "  The  power  of  ancient  IOTC  was  strong  within  me."  ' 


32  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'  She  is  beautiful  enough,  is  not  she,  for  that  higher 
1  moment?  But  Dante  !  Yet  who  could  paint  a  Dante, 
' —  and  Dante  in  heaven?  They  give  but  his  shadow, 
'  as  he  walked  in  the  forest-maze  of  earth.  Then  here 
'is  the  Madonna  del  Pesce;  not  divine,  like  the  Foligno, 
'not  deeply  maternal,  like  the  Seggiola,  not  the  beatified 
'  "Mother  of  God"  of  the  Dresden  gallery,  but  graceful, 
'and  "not  too  bright  and  good  for  human  nature's  daily 
'  "food."  And  here  is  Raphael  himself,  the  young  seer 
'  of  beauty,  with  eyes  softly  contemplative,  yet  lit  with 
:  central  fires,'  &c. 

There  were  gems,  too,  and  medallions  and  seals,  to  be 
examined,  each  enigmatical,  and  each  blended  by  remem- 
brances with  some  fair  hour  of  her  past  life. 

Talk  on  art  led  the  way  to  Greece  and  the  Greeks, 
whose  mythology  Margaret  was  studying  afresh.  She 
had  been  culling  the  blooms  of  that  poetic  land,  and 
could  not  but  offer  me  leaves  from  her  garland.  She 
spoke  of  the  statue  of  Minerva-Polias,  cut  roughly  from 
an  olive-tree,  yet  cherished  as  the  heaven-descended 
image  of  the  most  sacred  shrine,  to  which  was  due  the 
Panathenaic  festival.  '  The  less  ideal  perfection  in  the 
'figure,  the  greater  the  reverence  of  the  adorer.  Was 
'  not  this  because  spiritual  imagination  makes  light  of 
'  results,  and  needs  only  a  germ  whence  to  unfold  Olym- 
'  pic  splendors  ? ' 

She  spoke  of  the  wooden  column  left  standing  from 
the  ruins  of  the  first  temple  to  Juno,  amidst  the  marble 
walls  of  the  magnificent  fane  erected  in  its  place :  — 
'  This  is  a  most  beautiful  type,  is  not  it,  of  the  manner 
'  in  which  life's  earliest  experiences  become  glorified  by 
'  our  perfecting  destiny  ? ' 

1  In  the  temple  of  Love  and  the  Graces,  one  Grace  bore 


MYTHOLOGY.  33 

'  a  rose,  a  second  a  branch  of  myrtle,  a  third  dice ;  — who 
1  can  read  that  riddle  ? ' 

'  " Better  is  it,"  said  Appollonius,  "on  entering  a  small 
'  "  shrine  to  find  there  a  statue  of  gold  and  ivory,  than  in 
'•'a large  temple  to  behold  only  a  coarse  figure  of  terra 
'"cotta."  How  often,  after  leaving  with  disgust  the 
'so-called  great  affairs  of  men,  do  we  find  traces  of 
'angels'  visits  in  quiet  scenes  of  home. 

'  The  Hours  and  the  Graces  appear  as  ornaments  on 
'all  thrones  and  shrines,  except  those  of  Vulcan  and 
'  Pluto.  Alas  for  us,  when  we  become  so  sunk  in  utili- 
'  tarian  toil  as  to  be  blind  to  the  beauty  with  which  even 
'  common  cares  are  daily  wreathed  ! ' 

And  so  on  and  on,  with  myth  and  allusion. 

Next,  Margaret  spoke  of  the  friends  whose  generosity 
had  provided  the  decorations  on  her  walls,  and  the 
illustrated  books  for  her  table,  —  friends  who  were  fellow- 
students  in  art,  history,  or  science.  —  friends  whose  very 
life  she  shared.  Her  heart  seemed  full  to  overflow  with 
sympathy  for  their  joys  and  sorrows,  their  special  trials 
and  struggles,  their  peculiar  tendencies  of  character  and 
respective  relations.  The  existence  of  each  was  to  her 
a  sacred  process,  whose  developments  she  watched  with 
awe,  and  whose  leadings  she  reverently  sought  to  aid. 
She  had  scores  of  pretty  anecdotes  to  tell,  sweet  bowers 
of  sentiment  to  open,  significant  lessons  of  experience,  to 
interpret,  and  scraps  of  journals  or  letters  to  read  aloud, 
as  the  speediest  means  of  introducing  me  to  her  chosen 
circle.  There  was  a  fascinating  spell  in  her  piquant 
descriptions,  and  a  genial  glow  of  sympathy  animated 
to  characteristic  movement  the  figures,  who  in  varying 
pantomime  replaced  one  another  on  the  theatre  of  her 
fancy.  Frost-bound  New  England  melted  into  a  dream- 


34  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

land  of  romance  beneath  the  spice-breeze  of  her  Eastern 
>  narrative.  Sticklers  for  propriety  might  have  found 
fault  at  the  freedom  with  which  she  confided  her  friends' 
histories  to  one  who  was  a  comparative  stranger  to  them ; 
but  I  could  not  but  note  how  conscientiousness  reined  in 
her  sensibilities  and  curbed  their  career,  as  they  reached 
the  due  bounds  of  privacy.  She  did  but  realize  one's 
conception  of  the  transparent  truthfulness  that  will  per- 
vade advanced  societies  of  the  futurev  where  the  very 
atmosphere  shall  be  honorable  faith. 

Nearer  and  nearer  Margaret  was  approaching  a  secret 
throned  in  her  heart  that  day;  and  the  preceding  transi- 
tions were  but  a  prelude  of  her  orchestra  before  the  en- 
trance of  the  festal  group.  Unconsciously  she  made  these 
preparations  for  paying  worthy  honors  to  a  high  senti- 
ment. She  had  lately  heard  of  the  betrothal  of  two  of 
her  best-loved  friends;  and  she  wished  to  communicate 
the  graceful  story  in  a  way  that  should  do  justice  to  the 
facts  and  to  her  own  feelings.  It  was  by  a  spontaneous 
impulse  of  her  genius,  and  with  no  voluntary  foreshaping, 
that  she  had  grouped  the  previous  tales ;  but  no  drama 
could  have  been  more  artistically  constructed  than  the 
steps  whereby  she  led  me  onward  to  the  denouement; 
and  the  look,  tone,  words,  with  which  she  told  it,  were 
fluent  with  melody  as  the  song  of  an  irnprovisatrice. 

Scarcely  had  she  finished,  when,  offering  some  light 
refreshment,  —  as  it  was  now  past  noon, —  she  proposed  a 
walk  in  the  open  air.  She  led  the  way  to  Bussey's  wood, 
her  favorite  retreat  during  the  past  year,  where  she  had 
thought  and  read,  or  talked  with  intimate  friends.  We 
climbed  the  rocky  path,  resting  a  moment  or  two  at  every 
pretty  point,  till,  reaching  a  moss-cushioned  ledge  near 
the  summit,  she  seated  herself.  For  a  time  she  was 


TEMPERAMENT.  35 

silent,  entranced  in  delighted  communion  with  the 
exquisite  hue  of  the  sky,  seen  through  interlacing  boughs 
and  trembling  leaves,  and  the  play  of  shine  and  shadow 
over  the  wide  landscape.  But  soon,  arousing  from  her 
reverie,  she  took  up  the  thread  of  the  morning's  talk. 
My  part  was  to  listen ;  for  I  was  absorbed  in  contem- 
plating this,  to  me,  quite  novel  form  of  character.  It 
has  been  seen  how  my  early  distaste  for  Margaret's 
society  was  gradually  changed  to  admiration.  Like  all 
her  friends,  I  had  passed  through  an  avenue  of  sphinxes 
before  reaching  the  temple.  But  now  it  appeared  that 
thus  far  I  had  never  been  admitted  to  the  adytum. 

As,  leaning  on  one  arm,  she  poured  out  her  stream 
of  thought,  turning  now  and  then  her  eyes  full  upon  me, 
to  see  whether  I  caught  her  meaning,  there  was  leisure 
to  study  her  thoroughly.  Her  temperament  was  pre- 
dominantly what  the  physiologists  would  call  nervous- 
sanguine;  and  the  gray  eye,  rich  brown  hair  and  light 
complexion,  with  the  muscular  and  well-developed  frame, 
bespoke  delicacy  balanced  by  vigor.  Here  was  a  sensi- 
tive yet  powerful  being,  fit  at  once  for  rapture  or  sus- 
tained effort,  intensely  active,  prompt  for  adventure,  firm 
for  trial.  She  certainly  had  not  beauty ;  yet  the  high 
arched  dome  of  the  head,  the  changeful  expressiveness 
of  every  feature,  and  her  whole  air  of  mingled  dignity 
and  impulse,  gave  her  a  commanding  charm.  Especially 
characteristic  were  two  physical  traits.  The  first  was 
a  contraction  of  the  eyelids  almost  to  a  point,  —  a  trick 
caught  from  near-sightedness,  —  and  then  a  sudden 
dilation,  till  the  iris  seemed  to  emit  flashes  ;  —  an  effect, 
no  doubt,  dependent  on  her  highly-magnetized  condition. 
The  second  was  a  singular  pliancy  of  the  vertebrae  and 
muscles  of  the  neck,  enabling  her  by  a  mere  movement 


36  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

to  denote  each  varying  emotion ;  in  moments  of  tender- 
ness, or  pensive  feeling,  its  curves  were  swan-like  in 
grace,  but  when  she  was  scornful  or  indignant  it  con- 
tracted, and  made  swift  turns  like  that  of  a  bird  of  prey. 
Finally,  in  the  animation,  yet  abandon  of  Margaret's 
attitude  and  look,  were  rarely  blended  the  fiery  force  of 
northern,  and  the  soft  languor  of  southern  races. 

Meantime,  as  I  was  thus,  through  her  physiognomy, 
tracing  the  outlines  of  her  spiritual  form,  she  was  narrating 
chapters  from  the  book  of  experience.  How  superficially, 
heretofore,  had  I  known  her !  We  had  met  chiefly  as 
scholars.  But  now  I  saw  before  me  one  whose  whole 
life  had  been  a  poem,  —  of  boundless  aspiration  and  hope 
almost  wild  in  its  daring,  —  of  indomitable  effort  amidst 
poignant  disappointment, — of  widest  range,  yet  persistent 
unity.  Yes  !  here  was  a  poet  in  deed,  a  true  worshipper 
of  Apollo,  who  had  steadfastly  striven  to  brighten  and 
make  glad  existence,  to  harmonize  all  jarring  and  dis- 
cordant strings,  to  fuse  most  hard  conditions  and  cast 
them  in  a  symmetric  mould,  to  piece  fragmentary  for- 
tunes into  a  mosaic  symbol  of  heavenly  order.  Here 
was  one,  fond  as  a  child  of  joy,  eager  as  a  native  of  the 
tropics  for  swift  transition  from  luxurious  rest  to  pas- 
sionate excitement,  prodigal  to  pour  her  mingled  force  of 
will,  thought,  sentiment,  into  the  life  of  the  moment, 
all  radiant  with  imagination,  longing  for  communion 
with  artists  of  every  age  in  their  inspired  hours,  fitted  by 
genius  and  culture  to  mingle  as  an  equal  in  the  most 
refined  circles  of  Europe,  and  yet  her  youth  and  early 
womanhood  had  passed  away  amid  the  very  decent,  yet 
drudging,  descendants  of  the  prim  Puritans.  Trained 
among  those  who  could  have  discerned  her  peculiar 
power,  and  early  fed  with  the  fruits  of  beauty  for  which 


TRAGEDY.  37 

her  spirit  pined,  she  would  have  developed  into  one  of 
the  finest  lyrists,  romancers  and  critics,  that  the  modern 
literary  world  has  seen.  This  she  knew ;  and  this  tan- 
talization  of  her  fate  she  keenly  felt. 

But  the  tragedy  of  Margaret's  history  was  deeper  yet. 
Behind  the  poet  was  the  woman,  —  the  fond  and  relying, 
the  heroic  and  disinterested  woman.  The  very  glow  of 
her  poetic  enthusiasm  was  but  an  outflush  of  trustful 
affection ;  the  very  restlessness  of  her  intellect  was  the 
confession  that  her  heart  had  found  no  home.  A  "book- 
worm," "a  dilettante,"  "a  pedant,"  I  had  heard  her 
sneeringly  called ;  but  now  it  was  evident  that  her  seeming 
insensibility  was  virgin  pride,  and  her  absorption  in  study 
the  natural  vent  of  emotions,  which  had  met  no  object 
worthy  of  life-long  attachment.  At  once,  many  of  her 
peculiarities  became  intelligible.  Fitfulness,  unlooked-for 
changes  of  mood,  misconceptions  of  words  and  actions, 
substitution  of  fancy  for  fact, — which  had  annoyed  me 
during  the  previous  season,  as  inconsistent  in  a  person 
of  such  capacious  judgment  and  sustained  self-govern- 
ment,—  were  now  referred  to  the  morbid  influence 
of  affections  pent  up  to  prey  upon  themselves.  And, 
what  was  still  more  interesting,  the  clue  was  given  to  a 
singular  credulousness,  by  which,  in  spite  of  her  unusual 
penetration,  Margaret  might  be  led  away  blindfold.  As 
this  revelation  of  her  ardent  nature  burst  upon  me,  and 
as.  rapidly  recalling  the  past,  I  saw  how  faithful  she  had 
kept  to  her  high  purposes,  —  how  patient,  gentle,  and 
thoughtful  for  others,  how  active  in  self-improvement 
and  usefulness,  how  wisely  dignified  she  had  been, —  I 
could  not  but  bow  to  her  in  reverence. 

We  walked  back  to  the  house  amid  a  rosy  sunset,  and 
it  was  with  no  surprise  that  I  heard  her  complain  of  an 

VOL.  n.  4 


38  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

agonizing  nervous  headache,  which  compelled  her  at 
once  to  retire,  and  call  for  assistance.  As  for  myself, 
while  going  homeward,  I  reflected  with  astonishment  on 
the  unflagging  spiritual  energy  with  which,  for  hour  after 
hour,  she  had  swept  over  lands  and  seas  of  thought,  and, 
as  my  own  excitement  cooled,  I  became  conscious  of 
exhaustion,  as  if  a  week's  life  had  been  concentrated  in 
a  day. 

The  interview,  thus  hastily  sketched,  may  serve  as  a 
fair  type  of  our  usual  intercourse.  Always  I  found  her 
open-eyed  to  beauty,  fresh  for  wonder,  with  wings  poised 
for  flight,  and  fanning  the  coming  breeze  of  inspiration. 
Always  she  seemed  to  see  before  her,  — 

"  A  shape  all  light,  which  -with  one  hand  did  fling 

Dew  on  the  earth,  as  if  she  were  the  dawn, 
And  the  invisible  rain  did  ever  sing 
A  silver  music  on  the  mossy  lawn." 

Yet  more  and  more  distinctly  did  I  catch  a  plaintive  tone 
of  sorrow  in  her  thought  and  speech,  like  the  wail  of  an 
Jilolian  harp  heard  at  intervals  from  some  upper  window. 
She  had  never  met  one  who  could  love  her  as  she  could 
love ;  and  in  the  orange-grove  of  her  affections  the  white, 
perfumed  blossoms  and  golden  fruit  wasted  away  un- 
claimed. Through  the  mask  of  slight  personal  defects 
and  ungraceful  manners,  of  superficial  hauteur  and 
egotism,  and  occasional  extravagance  of  sentiment,  no 
equal  had  recognized  the  rare  beauty  of  her  spirit.  She 
was  yet  alone. 

Among  her  papers  remains  this  pathetic  petition :  — 

'  I  am  weary  of  thinking.  I  suffer  great  fatigue  from 
'living.  Oh  God,  take  me!  take  me  whoUy!  Thou 


THE    FRIEND.  39 

'  knowest  that  I  love  none  but  Thee.  All  this  beautiful 
'  poesy  of  my  being  lies  in  Thee.  Deeply  I  feel  it.  I  ask 
'  nothing.  Each  desire,  each  passionate  feeling,  is  on  the 
'surface  only;  inmostly  Thou  keepest  me  strong  and 
'  pure.  Yet  always  to  be  thus  going  out  into  moments, 
'  into  nature,  and  love,  and  thought !  Father,  I  am 
'  weary  !  Reassume  me  for  a  while,  I  pray  Thee.  Oh 
'let  me  rest  awhile  in  Thee,  Thou  only  Love!  In  the 
'  depth  of  my  prayer  I  suffer  much.  Take  me  only 
'  awhile.  No  fellow-being  will  receive  me.  I  cannot 
'  pause ;  they  will  not  detain  me  by  their  love.  Take 
'  me  awhile,  and  again  I  will  go  forth  on  a  renewed  ser- 
'  vice.  It  is  not  that  I  repine,  my  Father,  but  I  sink 
'  from  want  of  rest,  and  none  will  shelter  me.  Thou 
'  knowest  it  all.  Bathe  me  in  the  living  waters  of  Thy 
'Love.' 


VIL 

THE  FRIEND. 

VET,  conscious  as  she  was  of  an  unfulfilled  destiny, 
and  of  an  undeveloped  being,  Margaret  was  no  pining 
sentimentalist.  The  gums  oozing  from  wounded  boughs 
she  burned  as  incense  in  her  oratory;  but  in  outward 
relations  she  was  munificent  with  sympathy.  '  Let  me 
'  be,  Theodora,  a  bearer  of  heavenly  gifts  to  my  fel- 
<lows,'  is  written  in  her  journals,  and  her  life  fulfilled 
the  aspiration.  The  more  one  observed  her,  the  more 
surprising  appeared  the  variety,  earnestness,  and  con- 
stancy of  her  friendships.  Far  and  wide  reached  her 
wires  of  communication,  and  incessant  was  the  inter- 


40  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

change  of  messages  of  good-will.  She  was  never  so 
preoccupied  and  absorbed  as  to  deny  a  claimant  for  her 
affectionate  interest ;  she  never  turned  her  visitors  back 
upon  themselves,  mortified  and  vexed  at  being  misun- 
derstood. With  delicate  justice  she  appreciated  the  spe- 
cial form,  force,  tendency  of  utterly  dissimilar  characters- 
arid  her  heart  responded  to  every  appeal  alike  of  hum- 
blest suffering  or  loftiest  endeavor.  In  the  plain,  yet  elo- 
quent phrase  of  the  backwoodsman,  "  the  string  of  her 
door-latch  was  always  out,"  and  every  wayfarer  was 
free  to  share  the  shelter  of  her  roof,  or  a  seat  beside  her 
hearth-stone.  Or,  rather,  it  might  be  said,  in  symbol  of 
her  wealth  of  spirit,  her  palace,  with  its  galleries  of  art, 
its  libraries  and  festal-halls,  welcomed  all  guests  who 
could  enjoy  and  use  them. 

She  was,  indeed,  The  Friend.  This  was  her  voca- 
tion. She  bore  at  her  girdle  a  golden  key  to  unlock  all 
caskets  of  confidence.  Into  whatever  home  she  entered 
she  brought  a  benediction  of  truth,  justice,  tolerance,  and 
honor;  and  to  every  one  who  sought  her  to  confess,  or 
seek  counsel,  she  spoke  the  needed  word  of  stern  yet 
benignant  wisdom.  To  how  many  was  the  forming  of 
her  acquaintance  an  era  of  renovation,  of  awakening 
from  sloth,  indulgence  or  despair,  to  heroic  mastery  of 
fate,  of  inward  serenity  and  strength,  of  new-birth  to 
real  self-hood,  of  catholic  sympathies,  of  energy  conse- 
crated to  the  Supreme  Good.  Thus  writes  to  her  one 
who  stands  among  the  foremost  in  his  own  department : 
"  What  I  am  I  owe,  in  large  measure,  to  the  stimulus 
you  imparted.  You  roused  my  heart  with  high  hopes  ; 
you  raised  my  aims  from  paltry  and  vain  pursuits  to 
those  which  tasked  and  fed  the  soul ;  you  inspired  me 
with  a  great  ambition,  and  made  me  see  the  worth  and 


FRIENDSHIP.  41 

meaning  of  life ;  you  awakened  ,in  me  confidence  in  my 
own  powers,  showed  me  my  special  and  distinct  ability, 
and  quickened  my  individual  consciousness  by  intelli- 
gent sympathy  with  tendencies  and  feelings  which  I  but 
half  understood ;  you  gave  me  to  myself.  This  is  a 
most  benign  influence  to  exercise,  and  for  it,  above  all 
other  benefits,  gratitude  is  due.  Therefore  have  you 
an  inexhaustible  bank  of  gratitude  to  draw  from.  Bless 
God  that  he  has  allotted  to  you  such  a  ministry." 

The  following  extracts  from  her  letters  will  show  how 
profusely  Margaret  poured  out  her  treasures  upon  her 
friends ;  but  they  reveal,  too,  the  painful  processes  of 
alchemy  whereby  she  transmuted  her  lead  into  gold. 

'  Your  idea  of  friendship  apparently  does  not  include 
'  intellectual  intimacy,  as  mine  does,  but  consists  of 
'  mutual  esteem  and  spiritual  encouragement.  This  is 
'  the  thought  represented,  on  antique  gems  and  bas- 
'  reliefs,  of  the  meeting  between  God  and  Goddess,  I 
'  find ;  for  they  rather  offer  one  another  the  full  flower 
'  of  being,  than  grow  together.  As  in  the  figures  before 
{ me,  Jupiter,  king  of  Gods  and  men,  meets  Juno,  the 
'  sister  and  queen,  not  as  a  chivalric  suppliant,  but  as  a 
'stately  claimant;  and  she,  crowned,  pure,  majestic, 
'holds  the  veil  aside  to  reveal  herself  to  her  august 
1  spouse.' 

'  How  variously  friendship  is  represented  in  literature  ' 
'  Sometimes  the  two  friends  kindle  beacons  from  afar  to 
'apprize  one  another  that  they  are  constant,  vigilant, 
'  and  each  content  in  his  several  home.  Sometimes,  two 
'  pilgrims,  they  go  different  routes  in  service  of  the  same 

VOL.    II.  4* 


42  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

{ saint,  and  remember  one  another  as  they  give  alms, 
'learn  wisdom,  or  pray  in  shrines  along  the  road. 
'  Sometimes,  two  knights,  they  bid  farewell  with  mailed 
'  hand  of  truth  and  honor  all  unstained,  as  they  ride 
'forth  on  their  chosen  path  to  test  the  spirit  of  high 
'  emprise,  and  free  the  world  from  wrong,  —  to  meet 
'again  for  unexpected  succor  in  the  hour  of  peril,  or 
'in  joyful  surprise  to  share  a  frugal  banquet  on  the 
'plat  of  greensward  opening  from  forest  glades.  Some- 
'  times,  proprietors  of  two  neighboring  estates,  they  have 
'interviews  in  the  evening  to  communicate  their  exper- 
'  iments  and  plans,  or  to  study  together  the  stars  from 
'  an  observatory ;  if  either  is  engaged  he  simply  declares 
'it;  they  share  enjoyments  cordially,  they  exchange 
'praise  or  blame  frankly;  in  citizen-like  good-fellow- 
'  ship  they  impart  their  gains. 

''  All  these  views  of  friendship  are  noble  and  beauti- 
'  ful,  yet  they  are  riot  enough  for  our  manifold  nature. 
'  Friends  should  be  our  incentives  to  Right,  yet  not  only 
'  our  guiding,  but  our  prophetic  stars.  To  love  by  sight 
'  is  much,  to  love  by  faith  is  more ;  together  they  make 
'up  the  entire  love,  without  which  heart,  mind,  and 
'soul  cannot  be  alike  satisfied.  Friends  should  love 
'not  merely  for  the  absolute  worth  of  each  to  the 
'  other,  but  on  account  of  a  mutual  fitness  of  char- 
'  acter.  They  are  not  merely  one  another's  priests  or 
'  gods,  but  ministering  angels,  exercising  in  their  part 
'  the  same  function  as  the  Great  Soul  does  in  the  whole, 
'  —  of  seeing  the  perfect  through  the  imperfect,  nay, 
'creating  it  there.  Why  am  I  to  love  rny  friend  the 
'  less  for  any  obstruction  in  his  life  ?  Is  not  that  the  very 
'  time  for  me  to  love  most  tenderly,  when  I  must  see  his 
'  life  in  despite  of  seeming  ?  When  he  shows  it  to  me  I 


CHIVALRY.  43 

'  can  only  admire ;  I  do  not  give  myself,  I  am  taken  cap- 
'  tive. 

'But  how  shall  I  express  my  meaning?  Perhaps  I 
'  can  do  so  from  the  tales  of  chivalry,  where  I  find  what 
'  corresponds  far  more  thoroughly  with  my  nature,  than 
'  in  these  stoical  statements.  The  friend  of  Amadis 
'expects  to  hear  prodigies  of  valor  of  the  absent  Preux, 
'but  if  he  be  mutilated  in  one  of  his  first  battles,  shall 
'  he  be  mistrusted  by  the  brother  of  his  soul,  more  than 
'  if  he  had  been  tested  in  a  hundred  ?  If  Britomart 
4  finds  Artegall  bound  in  the  enchanter's  spell,  can 
'  she  doubt  therefore  him  whom  she  has  seen  in  the 
'magic  glass?  A  Britomart  does  battle  in  his  cause, 
'and  frees  him  from  the  evil  power,  while  a  dame 
'  of  less  nobleness  might  sit  and  watch  the  enchanted 
'sleep,  weeping  ni<*ht  and  day,  or  spur  on  her  white 
'palfrey  to  find  some  one  more  helpful  than  herself. 
'These  friends  in  chivalry  are  always  faithful  through 
'the  dark  hours  to  the  bright.  The  Douglas  motto, 
'"tender  and  true,"  seems  to  me  most  worthy  of  the 
'  strongest  breast.  To  borrow  again  from  Spencer,  I 
'am  entirely  satisfied  with  the  fate  of  the  three  brothers. 
'I  could  not  die  while  there  was  yet  life  in  my  brother's 
'breast.  I  would  return  from  the  shades  and  nerve  him 
'with  twofold  life  for  the  fight.  I  could  do  it,  for  our 
'  hearts  beat  with  one  blood.  Do  you  not  see  the  truth 
'  and  happiness  of  this  waiting  tenderness  ?  The  verse  — 

'"Have  I  a  lover 

Who  is  noble  and  free, 
I  would  he  were  nobler 
Than  to  love  me,"  — 

'  does  not  come  home  to  my  heart,  though  this  does :  — 


44  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'  "  I  could  not  love  thee,  sweet,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  honor  more."  ' 

*  *  *  '  October  IQth,  1840.  —  I  felt  singular  pleasure 
'  in  seeing  you  quote  Hood's  lines  on  "  Melancholy." 
'I  thought  nobody  knew  and  loved  his  serious  poems 
1  except  myself,  and  two  or  three  others,  to  whom  I 
'imparted  them.*  Do  you  like,  also,  the  ode  to  Au- 
'  tumn.  and  — 

'  "  Sigh  on,  sad  heart,  for  love's  eclipse  "  ? 

'  It  was  a  beautiful  time  when  I  first  read  these  poems. 
;I  was  staying  in  Hallowell,  Maine,  and  could  find  no 
' books  that  I  liked,  except  Hood's  poems.  You  know 
'  how  the  town  is  built,  like  a  terraced  garden  on  the 
'  river's  bank  ;  I  used  to  go  every  afternoon  to  the 
'granite  quarry  which  crowns  these  terraces,  and  read 
'  till  the  sunset-  came  casting  its  last  glory  on  the  oppo- 
'site  bank.  They  were  such  afternoons  as  those  in 
'September  and  October,  clear,  soft,  and  radiant.  Na- 
'  ture  held  nothing  back.  'T  is  many  years  since,  and 
'  I  have  never  again  seen  the  Kennebec,  but  remember 
'it  as  a  stream  of  noble  character.  It  was  the  first  river 
'  I  ever  sailed  up,  realizing  all  which  that  emblem  dis- 
'  closes  of  life.  Greater  still  would  the  charm  have 
'  been  to  sail  downward  along  an  unknown  stream, 
'  seeking  not  a  home,  but  a  ship  upon  the  ocean.' 

'Newbury,  Oct.  18,  1840.— It  rained,  and  the  day 
'was  pale  and  sorrowful,  the  thick-fallen  leaves  even 


*  This  vas  some  years  before  their  reprint  in  this  country,  it  should  be 
noticed. 


RIVER-LIFE.  45 

1  shrouded  the  river.  We  went  out  in  the  boat,  and  sat 
'•  under  the  bridge.  The  pallid  silence,  the  constant  fall 
'of  the  rain  and  leaves,  were  most  soothing,  life  had 
'  been  for  many  weeks  so  crowded  with  thought  and 
1  feeling,  pain  and  pleasure,  rapture  and  care.  Nature 
'  seemed  gently  to  fold  us  in  her  matron's  mantle.  On 
'  such  days  the  fall  of  the  leaf  does  not  bring  sadness,  — 
'  only  meditation.  Earth  seemed  to  loose  the  record  of 
'  past  summer  hours  from  her  permanent  life,  as  lightly, 
'and  spontaneously,  as  the  great  genius  casts  behind 
'him  a  literature,  —  the  Odyssey  he  has  outgrown.  In 
'the  evening  the  rain  ceased,  the  west  wind  came, 
'  and  we  went  out  in  the  boat  again  for  some  hours ; 
'indeed,  we  staid  till  the  last  clouds  passed  from  the 
'  moon.  Then  we  climbed  the  hill  to  see  the  full  light 
'in  solemn  sweetness  over  fields,  and  trees,  and  river. 

'  I  never  enjoyed  anything  more  in  its  way  than  the 

'  three  days  alone  with in  her  boat,  upon  the  lit- 

'  tie  river.  Not  without  reason  was  it  that  Goethe  lim- 
'  its  the  days  of  intercourse  to  three,  in  the  Wanderjahre. 
'  If  you  have  lived  so  long  in  uninterrupted  communion 
'  with  any  noble  being,  and  with  nature,  a  remembrance 
'of  man's  limitations  seems  to  call  on  Polycrates  to 
'cast  forth  his  ring.  She  seemed  the  very  genius  of 
'  the  scene,  so  calm,  so  lofty,  and  so  secluded.  I  never 
1  saw  any  place  that  seemed  to  me  so  much  like  home. 
'  The  beauty,  though  so  great,  is  so  unobtrusive. 

'  As  we  glided  along  the  river,  I  could  frame  my  com- 

'munity  far  more  naturally  and  rationally  than . 

'  A  few  friends  should  settle  upon  the  banks  of  a  stream 
'like  this,  planting  their  homesteads.  Some  should  be 
'farmers,  some  woodmen,  others  bakers,  millers,  &c. 
'  By  land,  they  should  carry  to  one  another  the  commod- 


46  JAMAICA   PLAIN. 

'ities;  on  the  river  they  should  meet  for  society.  At 
'  sunset  many,  of  course,  would  be  out  in  their  boats, 
'  but  they  would  love  the  hour  too  much  ever  to  disturb 
'  one  another.  I  saw  the  spot  where  we  should  discuss 
'  the  high  mysteries  that  Milton  speaks  of.  Also.  I  saw 
'  the  spot  where  I  would  invite  select  friends  to  jive 
'through  the  noon  of  night,  in  silent  communion. 
'When  we  wished  to  have  merely  playful  chat,  or 
'talk  on  politics  or  social  reform,  we  would  gather  in 
'  the  mill,  and  arrange  those  affairs  while  grinding  the 
'corn.  What  a  happy  place  for  children  to  grow  up  in  ! 

'  Would  it  not  suit  little •  to  go  to  school  to  the  cardi- 

'nal  flowers  in  her  boat,  beneath  the  great  oak-tree?  I 
'  think  she  would  learn  more  than  in  a  phalanx  of  juve- 
'nile  florists.  But,  truly,  why  has  such  a  thing  never 
'  been  1  One  of  these  valleys  so  immediately  suggests 
'  an  image  of  the  fair  company  that  might  fill  it,  and 
'live  so  easily,  so  naturally,  so  wisely.  Can  we  not 
'  people  the  banks  of  some  such  affectionate  little  stream  ?- 
'  I  distrust  ambitious  plans,  such  as  Phalansterian  organ- 
'  izations ! 

' is  quite  bent  on  trying  his  experiment.     I  hope 

'  he  may  succeed ;  but  as  they  were  talking  the  other 
'evening,  I  thought  of  the  river,  and  all  the  pretty 
'symbols  the  tide-mill  presents,  and  felt  if  I  could 
'at  all  adjust  the  economics  to  the  more  simple  pro- 
'cedure,  I  would  far  rather  be  the  miller,  hoping  to 
'attract  by  natural  affinity  some  congenial' baker,  "  und 
'"so  weiter."  However,  one  thing  seems  sure,  that 
'  many  persons  will  soon,  somehow,  somewhere,  throw 
'off  a  part,  at  least,  of  these  terrible  weights  of  the 
'social  contract,  and  see  if  they  cannot  lie  more  at 
'ease  in  the  lap  of  Nature.  I  do  not  feel  the  same 


COMPENSATIONS.  47 

'  interest  in  these  plans,  as  if  I  had  a  firmer  hold  on  life, 
'but  I  listen  with  much  pleasure  to  the  good  sugges- 
tions.' 

***** 

'  Oct.  19th,  1840. was  here.  Generally  I  go 

'  out  of  the  room  when  he  comes,  for  his  great  excita- 
( bility  makes  me  nervous,  and  his  fondness  for  detail  is 
'  wearisome.  But  to-night  I  was  too  much  fatigued  to 
'do  anything  else,  and  did  not  like  to  leave  mother;  so 
'I  lay  on  the  sofa  while  she  talked  with  him. 

'  My  mind  often  wandered,  yet  ever  and  anon,  as  I  lis- 
'  tened  again  to  him,  I  was  struck  with  admiration  at  the 
'  compensations  of  Nature.  Here  is  a  man,  isolated  from 
'his  kind  beyond  any  I  know,  of  an  ambitious  temper 
'and  without  an  object,  of  tender  affections  and  without 
'a  love  or  a  friend.  I  don't  suppose  any  mortal,  unless 
'  it  be  his  aged  mother,  cares  more  for  him  than  we  do, 
'  —  scarce  any  value  him  so  much.  The  disease,  which 
'has  left  him,  in  the  eyes  of  men,  a  scathed  and  blighted 
'  tree,  has  driven  him  back  to  Nature,  and  she  has  not 
'refused  him  sympathy.  I  was  surprised  by  the  refine- 
'  ment  of  his  observations  on  the  animals,  his  pets. 
'  He  has  carried  his  intercourse  with  them  to  a  degree 
'  of  perfection  we  rarely  attain  with  our  human  friends. 
'There  is  no  misunderstanding  between  him  and  his 
'  dogs  and  birds ;  and  how  rich  has  been  the  acquaint- 
'  ance  in  suggestion  !  Then  the  flowers  !  I  liked  to 
'hear  him,  for  he  recorded  all  their  pretty  ways, — not 
'  like  a  botanist,  but  a  lover.  His  interview  with  the 
'Magnolia  of  Lake  Pontchartrain  was  most  romantic. 
And  what  he  said  of  the  Yuca  seems  to  me  so  pretty, 
that  I  will  write  it  down,  though  somewhat  more  con- 
'  cisely  than  he  told  it :  — 


48  JAMAICA    PLAtN. 

'"I  had  kept  these  plants  of  the  Yuca  Filamentosa 
'  "six  or  seven  years,  though  they  had  never  bloomed. 
'  "  I  knew  nothing  of  them,  and  had  no  notion  of  what 
'"  feelings  they  would  excite.  Last  June  1  found  in 
"'bud  the  one  which  had  the  most  favorable  expos- 
'"ure.  A  week  or  two  after,  another,  which  was  more 
c "  in  the  shade,  put  out  flower-buds,  and  I  thought  I 
'"should  be  able  to  watch  them,  one  after  the  other; 
'  "  but,  no  !  the  one  which  was  most  favored  waited  for 
'"  the  other,  and  both  flowered  together  at  the  full  of 
'  "  the  moon.  This  struck  me  as  very  singular,  but  as 
'"soon  as  I  saw  the  flower  by  moonlight  I  under- 
' "  stood  it.  This  flower  is  made  for  the  moon,  as 
'"the  Heliotrope  is  for  the  sun,  and  refuses  other  influ- 
'  "  ences  or  to  display  her  beauty  in  any  other  light. 

'"The  first  night  I  saw  it  in  flower,  I  was  con- 
'  "scions  of  a  peculiar  delight,  I  may  even  say  rapture. 
'"Many  white  flowers  are  far  more  beautiful  by  day; 
' "  the  lily,  for  instance,  with  its  firm,  thick  leaf,  needs 
'  "  the  broadest  light  to  manifest  its  purity.  But  these 
'  "  transparent  leaves  of  greenish  white,  which  look  dull 
'  "in  the  day,  are  melted  by  the  moon  to  glistening  sil- 
'  "  ver.  And  not  only  does  the  plant  not  appear  in  its 
'  "  destined  hue  by  day,  but  the  flower,  though,  as  bell- 
'  "shaped,  it  cannot  quite  close  again  after  having  once 
'"expanded,  yet  presses  its  petals  together  as  closely 
'  "  as  it  can,  hangs  doxvn  its  little  blossoms,  and  its  tall 
'  "  stalk  seems  at  noon  to  have  reared  itself  only  to 
'"betray  a  shabby  insignificance.  Thus,  too,  with  the 
'"leaves,  which  have  burst  asunder  suddenly  like  the 
'"fan-palm  to  make  way  for  the  stalk,  —  their  edges 
' "  in  the  day  time  look  ragged  and  unfinished,  as  if 
'"nature  had  left  them  in  a  hurry  for  some  more 


YUCA    FILAMENTOSA.  49 

'"pleasing  task.  On  the  day  after  the  evening  when 
'"I  had  thought  it  so  beautiful,  I  could  not  conceive 
'  "  how  I  had  made  such  a  mistake. 

'  "  But  the  second  evening  I  went  out  into  the  garden 
'  "again.  In  clearest  moonlight  stood  my  flower,  more 
'  "beautiful  than  ever.  The  stalk  pierced  the  air  like  a 
'  "spear,  all  the  little  bells  had  erected  themselves  around 
'  "it  in  most  graceful  array,  with  petals  more  transpa- 
'  "rent  than  silver,  and  of  softer  light  than  the  diamond. 
'"Their  edges  were  clearly,  but  not  sharply  defined. 
' "  They  seemed  to  have  been  made  by  the  moon's 
'  "  rays.  The  leaves,  which  had  looked  ragged  by  day, 
'"  now  seemed  fringed  by  most  delicate  gossamer,  and 
'"the  plant  might  claim  with  pride  ifs  distinctive  epi- 
'  "  thet  of  Filamentosa.  I  looked  at  it  till  my  feelings 
'"became  so  strong  that  I  longed  to  share  it.  The 
'"thought  which  filled  my  mind  was  that  here  we 
'  "  saw  the  type  of  pure  feminine  beauty  in  the  .moon's 
'"own  flower.  I  have  since  had  further  opportunity 
'"of  watching  the  Yuca,  and  verified  these  observa- 
'  "  tions,  that  she  will  not  flower  till  the  full  moon,  and 
'  "chooses  to  hide  her  beauty  from  the  eye  of  day." 

'  Might  not  this  be  made  into  a  true  poem,  if  written 
'out  merely  as  history  of  the  plant,  and  no  observer 
'  introduced  ?  How  finely  it  harmonizes  with  all  legends 
'of  Isis,  Diana.  &c.!  It  is  what  I  tried  to  say  in  the 
'  sonnet,  — 

« Woman's  heaven, 
'  Where  palest  lights  a  silvery  sheen  diffuse. 

'In  tracing  these  correspondences,  one  really  does 
'  take  hold  of  a  Truth,  of  a  Divine  Thought.'  *  * 

VOL.  II.  5 


50  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'  October  25th,  1840.  — This  week  I  have  not  read  any 
'  book,  nor  once  walked  in  the  woods  and  fields.  I  meant 
'  to  give  its  days  to  setting  outward  things  in  order, 
'  and  its  evenings  to  writing.  But,  I  know  not  how  it  is, 
'I  can  never  simplify  my  life;  always  so  many  ties,  so 
'  many  claims  !  However,  soon  the  winter  winds  will 
'  chant  matins  and  vespers,  which  may  make  my  house 
'  a  cell,  and  in  a  snowy  veil  enfold  me  for  my  prayer. 
'  If  I  cannot  dedicate  myself  this  time,  I  will  not  expect 
'  it  again.  Surely  it  should  be  !  These  Carnival  masks 
'  have  crowded  on  me  long  enough,  and  Lent  must  be  at 
'hand.  *  * 

' and have  been  writing  me  letters,  to  answer 

'  which  required  all  the  time  and  thought  I  could  give 

'  for  a  day  or  two.  's  were  of  joyful  recognition, 

1  and  so  beautiful  I  would  give  much  to  show  them  to 

'you.  's  have  singularly  affected  me.  They  are 

'noble,  wise,  of  most  unfriendly  friendliness.  I  don't 
'  know  why  it  is,  1  always  seem  to  myself  to  have  gone 
'  so  much  further  with  a  friend  than  I  really  have.  Just 

'  as  at  Newport  I  thought met  me,  when  he  did  not, 

'  and  sang  a  joyful  song  which  found  no  echo,  so  here 

' asks  me  questions  which  I  thought  had  been 

'  answered  in  the  first  days  of  our  acquaintance,  and 
'  coldly  enumerates  all  the  charming  qualities  which  make 
'  it  impossible  for  him  to  part  with  me !  He  scolds  me, 
'  though  in  the  sweetest  and  solemnest  way.  I  will  not 
'  quote  his  words,  though  their  beauty  tempts  me,  for 
'  they  do  riot  apply,  they  do  not  touch  ME. 

'  Why  is  it  that  the  religion  of  my  nature  is  so  much 
'  hidden  from  my  peers  ?  why  do  they  question  me,  who 
'never  question  them?  why  persist  to  regard  as  a 
'meteor  an  orb  of  assured  hope?  Can  no  soul  know 


TRAGEDY.  51 

(me  wholly?  shall  I  never  know  the  deep  delight  of 
c  gratitude  to  any  but  the  All-Knowing?  I  shall  wait  for 

' very  peaceably,  in  reverent  love  as  ever ;  but  I 

'  cannot  see  why  he  should  not  have  the  pleasure  of 
'knowing  now  a  friend,  who  has  been  "so  tender  and 
' "  true." ' 

' was  here,  and  spent  twenty-four  hours  in  telling 

1  me  a  tale  of  deepest  tragedy.  Its  sad  changes  should 
'  be  written  out  in  Godwin's  best  manner :  such  are  the 
'  themes  he  loved,  as  did  also  Rousseau.  Through  all 
'  the  dark  shadows  shone  a  pure  white  ray,  one  high, 
'spiritual  character,  a  man,  too,  and  of  advanced  age. 
'  I  begin  to  respect  men  more,  —  I  mean  actual  men. 
'  What  men  may  be,  I  know ;  but  the  men  of  to-day  have 
'  seemed  to  me  of  such  coarse  fibre,  or  else  such  poor 
'  wan  shadows ! 

' had  scarcely  gone,  when came  and  wished 

1  to  spend  a  few  hours  with  me.  I  was  totally  exhausted, 
'  but  I  lay  down,  and  she  sat  beside  me,  and  poured  out 
'  all  her  noble  feelings  and  bright  fancies.  There  was 
1  little  light  in  the  room,  and  she  gleamed  like  a  cloud 

'  "  of  pearl  and  opal," 

'  and  reminded  me  more  than  ever  of 


the  light-haired  Lombardess 


Singing  a  song  of  her  own  native  land," 

'  to  the  dying  Correggio,  beside  the  fountain. 

'  I  am  astonished  to  see  how  much  Bettine's  book  is  to 
'  all  these  people.  This  shows  how  little  courage  they 
'have  had  to  live  out  themselves.  She  really  brings 
£  them  a  revelation.  The  men  wish  they  had  been  loved 
'  by  Bettine ;  the  girls  wish  to  write  down  the  thoughts 


52  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'  that  come,  and  see  if  just  such  a  book  does  not  grow 

'  up.     ,  however,  was  one  of  the  few  who  do  not 

'over-estimate  her;  she  truly  thought  Bettine  only  pub- 
'  lishes  what  many  burn.  Would  not  genius  be  common 
'  as  light,  if  men  trusted  their  higher  selves  ? ' 

'  I  heard  in  town  that is  a  father,  and  has  gone 

'  to  see  his  child.  This  news  made  me  more  grave  even 
'  than  such  news  usually  does ;  I  suppose  because  I  have 
'known  the  growth  of  his  character  so  intimately.  I 
'  called  to  mind  a  letter  he  had  written  me  of  what  we 
'  had  expected  of  our  fathers.  The  ideal  father,  the  pro- 
'foundly  wise,  provident,  divinely  tender  and  benign,  he. 
'  is  indeed  the  God  of  the  human  heart.  How  solemn 
'this  moment  of  being  called  to  prepare  the  way,  to 
'make  way  for  another  generation!  What  fulfilment 
'  does  it  claim  in  the  character  of  a  man,  that  he  should 
'  be  worthy  to  be  a  father !  —  what  purity  of  motive. 
'  what  dignity,  what  knowledge  !  When  I  recollect  how 
'  deep  the  anguish,  how  deeper  still  the  want,  with  which 
'I  walked  alone  in  hours  of  childish  passion,  and  called 
'  for  a  Father,  often  saying  the  word  a  hundred  times,  till 
'stifled  by  sobs,  how  great  seems  the  duty  that  name 
'  imposes  !  Were  but  the  harmony  preserved  through- 
'out!  Could  the  child  keep  learning  his  earthly,  as  he 
'  does  his  heavenly  Father,  from  all  best  experience  of 
'  life,  till  at  last  it  were  the  climax :  "  I  am  the  Father. 
'  "  Have  ye  seen  me?  —  ye  have  seen  the  Father."  But 
'how  many  sons  have  we  to  make  one  father?  Surely, 
'to  spirits,  not  only  purified  but  perfected,  this  must 
'  appear  the  climax  of  earthly  being,  —  a  wise  and  worthy 
'parentage.  Here  I  always  sympathize  with  Mr.  Alcott. 
'  He  views  the  relation  truly.' 


ANGEL    MINISTRY.  53 

' Dec.  3,  1840.  bids  me  regard  her  "as  a  sick 

"  '  child ; "  and  the  words  recall  some  of  the  sweetest  hours 
'of  existence.  My  brother  Edward  was  born  on  my 
'  birth-day,  and  they  said  he  should  be  my  child.  But 
'  he  sickened  and  died  just  as  the  bud  of  his  existence 
'showed  its  first  bright  hues.  He  was  some  weeks 
'  wasting  away,  and  I  took  care  of  him  always  half  the 
'night.  He  was  a  beautiful  child,  and  became  very  dear 
'  to  me  then.  Still  in  lonely  woods  the  upturned  violets 
'show  me  the  pleading  softness  of  his  large  blue  eyes,  in 
{ those  hours  when  I  would  have  given  worlds  to  prevent 
'his  suffering,  and  could  not.  I  used  to  carry  him  about 
/  in  my  arms  for  hours ;  it  soothed  him,  and  I  loved  to 
'feel  his  gentle  weight  of  helpless  purity  upon  my  heart, 
'  while  night  listened  around.  At  last,  when  death  came, 
'  and  the  soul  took  wing  like  an  overtasked  bird  from  his 

'  sweet  form,  I  felt  what  I  feel  now.  Might  I  free , 

'  as  that  angel  freed  him  ! 

'In  daily  life  I  could  never  hope  to  be  an  unfailing 
'fountain  of  energy  and  bounteous  love.  My  health  is 
'frail;  my  earthly  life  is  shrunk  to  a  scanty  rill;  I  am 
'little  better  than  an  aspiration,  which  the  ages  will 
'  reward,  by  empowering  me  to  incessant  acts  of  vigorous 
'  beauty.  But  now  it  is  well  with  me  to  be  with  those 
'  who  do  not  suffer  overmuch  to  have  me  suffer.  It  is 
'  best  for  me  to  serve  where  I  can  better  bear  to  fall  short. 

'  I  could  visit more  nobly  than  in  daily  life,  through 

'  the  soul  6f  our  souls.  When  she  named  me  her  Priestess, 
'  that  name  made  me  perfectly  happy.  Long  has  been 
'  my  consecration ;  may  I  not  meet  those  I  hold  dear  at 
'  the  altar  1  How  would  I  pile  up  the  votive  offerings, 
'  and  crowd  the  fires  with  incense '.  Life  might  be  full 

VOL.  n.         5* 


54  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'and  fair;  for,  in  my  own  way,  I  could  live  for  my 

'friends.'  *  * 

'Dec.  8th,  1840.  —  My  book  of  amusement  has  been 
'the  Evenings  of  St.  Petersburg.  I  do  not  find  the 
'praises  bestowed  on  it  at  all  exaggerated.  Yet  De 
'  Maistre  is  too  logical  for  me.  I  only  catch  a  thought 
'  here  and  there  along  the  page.  There  is  a  grandeur 
'  even  in  the  subtlety  of  his  mind.  He  walks  with  a  step 
'  so  still,  that,  but  for  his  dignity,  it  would  be  stealthy, 
'  yet  with  brow  erect  and  wide,  eye  grave  and  deep.  He 
'  is  a  man  such  as  I  have  never  known  before.'  *  * 

'  I  went  to  see  Mrs.  Wood  in  the  Somnambula.  Nothing 
'could  spoil  this  opera,  which  expresses  an  ecstasy,  a 
'  trance  of  feeling,  better  than  anything  I  ever  heard.  I 
'have  loved  every  melody  in  it  for  years,  and  it  was 
'happiness  to  listen  to  the  exquisite  modulations  as  they 
'flowed  out  of  one  another,  endless  ripples  on  a  river 
'  deep,  wide  and  strewed  with  blossoms.  I  never  have 
'  known  any  one  more  to  be  loved  than  Bellini.  No 
'wonder  the  Italians  make  pilgrimages  to  his  grave.  In 
'  him  thought  and  feeling  flow  always  in  one  tide ;  he 
'never  divides  himself.  He  is  as  melancholy  as  he  is 
'  sweet ;  yet  his  melancholy  is  not  impassioned,  but  purely 
'  tender.' 

'Dec.  15,  1840.  —  I  have  not  time  to  write  out  as  I 
'should  this  sweet  story  of  Melissa,  but  here  is  the  out- 
'  line :  — 

'  More  than  four  years  ago  she  received  an  injury, 
'  which  caused  her  great  pain  in  the  spine,  and  went  to 
'the  next  country  town  to  get  medical  advice.  She 
'  stopped  at  the  house  of  a  poor  blacksmith,  an  acquaint- 


MELISSA.  55 

1  ance  only,  and  has  never  since  been  able  to  be  moved. 
'  Her  mother  and  s>ster  come  by  turns  to  take  care  of  her. 
'  She  cannot  help  herself  in  any  way,  but  is  as  completely 
'dependent  as  an  infant.  The  blacksmith  and  his  wife 
'gave  her  the  best  room  in  their  house,  have  ever  since 
'  ministered  to  her  as  to  a  child  of  their  own,  and,  when 
'people  pity  them  for  having  to  bear  such  a  burthen, 
'they  say,  "It  is  none,  but  a  blessing." 

'  Melissa  suffers  all  the  time,  and  great  pain.  She 
'cannot  amuse  or  employ  herself  in  any  way,  and  all 
'  these  years  has  been  as  dependent  on  others  for  new 
'  thoughts,  as  for  daily  cares.  Yet  her  mind  has  deep- 
'ened,  and  her  character  refined,  under  those  stern 
'  teachers,  Pain  and  Gratitude,  till  she  has  become  the 
'patron  saint  of  the  village,  and  the  muse  of  the  village 
'  school-mistress.  She  has  a  peculiar  aversion  to  egotism, 
'  and  could  not  bear  to  have  her  mother  enlarge  upon  her 
'  sufferings. 

'  "  Perhaps  it  will  pain  the  lady  to  hear  that,"  said  the 
'mild,  religious  sufferer,  who  had  borne  all  without  a 
'  complaint. 

'  "  Whom  the  Lord  loveth  he  chasteneth."  The  poor 
'  are  the  generous ;  the  injured,  the  patient  and  loving. 

'All  that said  of  this  girl  was  in  perfect  harmony 

'  with  what  De  Maistre  says  of  the  saint  of  St.  Peters- 
'burg,  who,  almost  devoured  by  cancer,  when  asked, 
'  "  Quelle  est  la  premiere  grace  que  vous  demanderez  a 
'"Dieu,  ma  chere  enfant,  lorsque  vous  serez  devant 
£"lui?"  she  replied,  "Je  lui  demanderai  pour  mes 
'  "  bienfaiteurs  la  grace  de  1'aimer  autant  que  je  1'aime." 

'When  they  were  lamenting  for  her,  "  Je  ne  suis  pas, 
c"dit  elle,  aussi  malheureuse  que  vous  le  croyez;  Dieu 
'  "me  fait  la  grace  de  ne  penser,  qu'a  lui."  *  * 


56  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'Next  of  Edith.  Tall,  gaunt,  hard-favored  was  this 
'candidate  for  the  American  calendar;  but  Bonifacia 
'might  be  her  name.  From  her  earliest  years  she  had 
'  valued  all  she  knew,  only  as  she  was  to  teach  it  again. 
'  Her  highest  ambition  was  to  be  the  school-mistress ;  hei 
'recreation  to  dress  the  little  ragged  things,  and  take  care 
'  of  them  out  of  school  hours.  She  had  some  taste  for 
'  nursing  the  grown-up,  but  this  was  quite  subordinate  to 
'  her  care  of  the  buds  of  the  forest.  Pure,  perfectly  benefi- 
'cent,  lived  Edith,  and  never  thought  of  any  thing  or 
'  person,  but  for  its  own  sake.  When  she  had  attained 
'midway  the  hill  of  life,  she  happened  to  be  boarding  in 
'  the  house  with  a  young  farmer,  who  was  lost  in  admira- 
'  tion  of  her  lore.  How  he  wished  he,  too,  could  read ! 
'  "  What,  can't  you  read  1  O,  let  me  teach  you  !  "  —  "  You 
' "  never  can ;  I  was  too  thick-skulled  to  learn  even  at 
'  "school.  I  am  sure  I  never  could  now."  But  Edith 
'  was  not  to  be  daunted  by  any  fancies  of  incapacity,  and 
'set  to  work  with  utmost  zeal  to  teach  this  great  grown 
'  man  the  primer.  She  succeeded,  and  won  his  heart 
'  thereby.  He  wished  to  requite  the  raising  him  from  the 
'night  of  ignorance,  as  Howard  and  Nicholas  Poussin 
'  did  the  kind  ones  who  raised  them  from  the  night  of  the 
'  tomb,  by  the  gift  of  his  hand.  Edith  consented,  on 
'  condition  that  she  might  still  keep  school.  So  he  had 
'his  sister  come  to  "keep  things  straight."  Edith  and 
'he  go  out  in  the  morning,  —  he  to  his  field,  she  to  her 
'school,  and  meet  again  at  eventide,  to  talk,  and  plan, 
'  and,  I  hope,  to  read  also. 

'  The  first  use  Edith  made  of  her  accession  of  property, 

'  through  her  wedded  estate,  was  to  give  away  all  she 

thought  superfluous  to  a  poor  family  she  had  long  pitied, 

and  to  invite  a  poor  sick  woman  to  her  "spare  cham- 


COMMUNITY.  57 

'  "  her."  Notwithstanding  a  course  like  this,  her  husband 
'  has  grown  rich,  and  proves  that  the  pattern  of  the  wid- 
'  ow's  cruse  was  not  lost  in  Jewry. 

'  Edith  has  become  the  Natalia  of  the  village,  as  is 
'  Melissa  its  "  Scheme  Seele."  ' 

1  Dec.  22,  1840.  —  "Community"  seems  dwindling  to 
1  a  point,  and  I  fancy  the  best  use  of  the  plan,  as  pro- 
jected thus  far,  will  prove  the  good  talks  it  has  caused 
'  here,  upon  principles.  I  feel  and  find  great  want  of 
'  wisdom  in  myself  and  the  others.  We  are  not  ripe  to 
'  reconstruct  society  yet.  O  Christopher  Columbus !  how 
1  art  thou  to  be  admired,  when  we  see  how  other  men 

1  go  to  work  with  their  lesser  enterprises !     knows 

'deepest  what  he  wants,  but  not  well  how  to  get  it. 

' has  a  better  perception  of  means,  and  less  insight 

'as  to  principles;  but  this  movement  has  done  him  a 
'  world  of  good.  All  should  say,  however,  that  they 
'consider  this  plan  as  a  mere  experiment,  and  are  willing 
'  to  fail.  I  tell  them  that  they  are  not  ready  till  they  can 

'say  that.     says  he  can  bear  to  be  treated  unjustly 

'  by  all  concerned,  —  which  is  much.  He  is  too  sanguine, 
'  as  it  appears  to  me,  but  his  aim  is  worthy,  and,  with 
'his  courage  and  clear  intellect,  his  experiment  will  not, 
'  at  least  to  him,  be  a  failure.' 

'Feb.  19,  1841.  — Have  I  never  yet  seen  so  much  as 
'one  of  my  spiritual  family?  The  other  night  they  sat 
'round  me,  so  many  who  have  thought  they  loved,  or 
'  who  begin  to  love  me.  I  felt  myself  kindling  the  same 
'  fire  in  all  their  souls.  I  looked  on  each,  and  no  eye 
'repelled  me.  Yet  there  was  no  warmth  for  me  on  all 
those  altars.  Their  natures  seemed  deep,  yet  theie  was 


58 


JAMAICA    PLAIN. 


'not  one  from  which  I  could  draw  the  living  fountain.  I 
•could  only  cheat  the  hour  with  them,  prize,  admire,  and 
'pity.  It  was  sad;  yet  who  would  have  seen  sadness 
'in  me?  *  * 

'Once  I  was  almost  all  intellect;  now  I  am  almost  all 
'feeling.  Nature  vindicates  her  rights,  and  I  feel  all 
'Italy  glowing  beneath  the  Saxon  crust.  This  cannot 
'last  long;  I  shall  burn  to  ashes  if  all  this  smoulders 
'  here  much  longer.  I  must  die  if  I  do  not  burst  forth  in 
'  genius  or  heroism. 

'I  meant  to  have  translated  the  best  passages  of  "Die 
'  "  Gunderode,''' —  which  I  prefer  to  Bettine's  correspond- 
'ence  with  Goethe.  The  two  girls  are  equal  natures, 
'  and  both  in  earnest.  Goethe  made  a  puppet-show,  for 
'  his  private  entertainment,  of  Bettine's  life,  and  we  won- 
'der  she  did  not  feel  he  was  not  worthy  of  her  homage. 
'  Gunderode  is  to  me  dear  and  admirable,  Bettine  only 
'interesting.  Gunderode  is  of  religious  grace,  Bettine 
'the  fulness  of  instinctive  impulse;  Gunderode  is  the 
'ideal,  Bettine  nature;  Gunderode  throws  herself  into  the 
'river  because  the  world  is  all  too  narrow,  Bettine  lives 
'  and  follows  out  every  freakish  fancy,  till  the  enchanting 
'  child  degenerates  into  an  eccentric  and  undignified  old 
'  woman.  There  is  a  medium  somewhere.  Philip  Sid- 
'  ney  found  it ;  others  had  it  found  for  them  by  fate.' 

'  March  29, 1841.  —  *  *  Others  have  looked  at  society 
'with  far  deeper  consideration  than  I.  I  have  felt  so 
'unrelated  to  this  sphere,  that  it  has  not  been  hard  for 
'  me  to  be  true.  Also,  I  do  not  believe  in  Society.  I  feel 
'  that  every  man  must  struggle  with  these  enormous  ills, 
'in  st>me  way,  in  every  age;  in  that  of  Moses,  or  Plato, 
'or  Angelo,  as  in  our  own.  So  it  has  not  moved  me 


NEWPORT.  59 

1  much  to  see  my  time  so  corrupt,  but  it  would  if  I  were 
'in  a  false  position. 

' went  out  to  his  farm  yesterday,  full  of  cheer,  as 

1  one  who  doeth  a  deed  with  sincere  good  will.  He  has 
'  shown  a  steadfastness  and  earnestness  of  purpose  most 
'  grateful  to  behold.  I  do  not  know  what  their  scheme 
'will  ripen  to;  at  present  it  does  not  deeply  engage  my 
'hopes.  It  is  thus  far  only  a  little  better  way  than  others. 
'  I  doubt  if  they  will  get  free  from  all  they  deprecate  in 
'  society.' 

'  Paradise  Farm,  Newport,  July,  1841.  —  Here  are  no 
'deep  forests,  no  stern  mountains,  nor  narrow,  sacred 
'valleys;  but  the  little  white  farm-house  looks  down 
'  from  its  gentle  slope  on  the  boundless  sea,  and  beneath 
'  the  moon,  beyond  the  glistening  corn-fields,  is  heard  the 
'  endless  surge.  All  around  the  house  is  most  gentle  and 
'  friendly,  with  many  common  flowers,  that  seem  to  have 
'planted  themselves,  and  the  domestic  honey-suckle 
'carefully  trained  over  the  little  window.  Around  are 
'  all  the  common  farm-house  sounds,  —  the  poultry  mak- 
'ing  a  pleasant  recitative  between  the  carols  of  singing 
'birds;  even  geese  and  turkeys  are  not  inharmonious 
'  when  modulated  by  the  diapasons  of  the  beach.  The 
'orchard  of  very  old  apple-trees,  whose  twisted  forms 
'  tell  of  the  glorious  winds  that  have  here  held  revelry, 
'  protects  a  little  homely  garden,  such  as  gives  to  me  an 
'  indescribable  refreshment,  where  the  undivided  vege- 
'  table  plots  and  flourishing  young  fruit-trees,  mingling 
'carelessly,  seem  as  if  man  had  dropt  the  seeds  just 
'  where  he  wanted  the  plants,  and  they  had  sprung  up 
'  at  once.  The  family,  too,  look,  at  first  glance,*  well- 
'  suited  to  the  place,  —  homely,  kindly,  unoppressed.  of 


60  JAMAICA   PLAIN. 

'  honest  pride  and  mutual  love,  not  unworthy  to  look  out 
'  upon  the  far-shining  sea. 

*  *  '  Many,  many  sweet  little  things  would  I  tell  you, 
'  only  they  are  so  very  little.  I  feel  just  now  as  if  I  could 
'  live  and  die  here.  I  am  out  in  the  open  air  all  the  time, 
1  except  about  two  hours  in  the  early  morning.  And  now 
'the  moon  is  fairly  gone  late  in  the  evening.  While  she 
'was  here,  we  staid  out,  too.  Everything  seems  sweet 
'here,  so  homely,  so  kindly;  the  old  people  chatting  so 
'  contentedly,  the  young  men  and  girls  laughing  together 
'  in  the  fields,  —  not  vulgarly,  but  in  the  true  kinsfolk  way, 
'  —  little  children  singing  in  the  house  and  beneath  the 
'  berry-bushes.  The  never-ceasing  break  of  the  surf  is  a 
'continual  symphony,  calming  the  spirits  which  this 
'  delicious  air  might  else  exalt  too  much.  Everything  on 
'the  beach  becomes  a  picture;  the  casting  the  seine,  the 
'  ploughing  the  deep  for  seaweed.  This,  when  they  do 
'  it  with  horses,  is  prettiest  of  all ;  but  when  you  see  the 
'  oxen  in  the  surf,  you  lose  all  faith  in  the  story  of  Europa, 
'  as  the  gay  waves  tumble  in  on  their  lazy  sides.  The 
'  bull  would  be  a  fine  object  on  the  shore,  but  not,  not  in 
'  the  water.  Nothing  short  of  a  dolphin  will  do !  Late 

'to-night,  from  the  highest  Paradise  rocks,  seeing  

'  wandering,  and  the  horsemen  careering  on  the  beach, 
'  so  spectrally  passing  into  nature,  amid  the  pale,  brood- 
'  ing  twilight,  I  almost  thought  myself  in  the  land  of 
'  souls ! 

'  But  in  the  morning  it  is  life,  all  cordial  and  common. 
'  This  half-fisherman,  half-farmer  life  seems  very  favor- 
'  able  to  manliness.  I  like  to  talk  with  the  fishermen ; 
'  they  are  not  boorish,  not  limited,  but  keen-eyed,  and  of 
'a  certain  rude  gentleness.  Two  or  three  days  ago  I 
'  saw  the  sweetest  picture.  There  is  a  very  tall  rock, 


MOONLIGHT.  61 

'one  of  the  natural  pulpits,  at  one  end  of  the  beach. 
'  As  I  approached,  I  beheld  a  young  fisherman  with  his 
'little  girl;  he  had  nestled  her  into  a  hollow  of  the  rock, 
'  and  was  standing  before  her,  with  his  arms  round  her, 
'  and  looking  up  in  her  face.  Never  was  anything  so 
'  pretty.  I  stood  and  stared,  country  fashion  ;  and  pres- 
'  ently  he  scrambled  up  to  the  very  top  with  her  in  his 
'arms.  She  screamed  a  little  as  they  went,  but  when 
'they  were  fairly  up  on  the  crest  of  the  rock,  she 
'  chuckled,  and  stretched  her  tiny  hand  over  his  neck,  to 
'  go  still  further.  Yet,  when  she  found  he  did  not  wish 
'it,  she  leaned  against  his  shoulder,  and  he  sat,  feeling 
'  himself  in  the  child  like  that  exquisite  Madonna,  and 
'looking  out  over  the  great  sea.  Surely,  the  "kindred 
1 "  points  of  heaven  and  home  "  were  known  in  his  breast, 
'  whatever  guise  they  might  assume. 

'  The  sea  is  not  always  lovely  and  bounteous,  though 
'  generally,  since  we  have  been  here,  she  has  beamed  her 
'  bluest.  The  night  of  the  full  moon  we  staid  out  on  the 
'far  rocks.  The  afternoon  was  fair;  the  sun  set  nobly, 
'  wrapped  in  a  violet  mantle,  which  he  left  to  the  moon, 
'  in  parting.  She  not  only  rose  red,  lowering,  and  of  im- 
'  patient  attitude,  but  kept  hiding  her  head  all  the  evening 

'  with    an   angry,    struggling    movement. said, 

'  "This  is  not  Dian;"  and  I  replied,  "No;  now  we  see 
'  "  the  Hecate/'  But  the  damp,  cold  wind  came  sobbing, 
'  and  the  waves  began  wailing,  too,  till  I  was  seized  with 
'  a  feeling  of  terror,  such  as  I  never  had  before,  even  in 
'  the  darkest,  and  most  treacherous,  rustling  wood.  The 
'  moon  seemed  sternly  to  give  me  up  to  the  daemons  of 
'  the  rock,  and  the  waves  to  mourn  a  tragic  chorus,  till 
'  I  felt  their  cold  grasp.  I  suffered  so  much,  that  I  feared 
'  we  should  never  get  home  without  some  fatal  catas- 

VOL.  II.  6 


62  JAMAICA   PLAIN. 

'  trophe.  Never  was  I  more  relieved  than  when,  as  we 
1  came  up  the  hill,  the  moon  suddenly  shone  forth.  It 
'  was  ten  o'clock,  and  here  every  human  sound  is  hushed, 
'  and  lamp  put  out  at  that  hour.  How  tenderly  the 
'grapes  and  tall  corn-ears  glistened  and  nodded  !  and  the 
'  trees  stretched  out  their  friendly  arms,  and  the  scent  of 
'  every  humblest  herb  was  like  a  word  of  love.  The 
'  waves,  also,  at  that  moment  put  on  a  silvery  gleam, 
'  and  looked  most  soft  and  regretful.  That  was  a  real 
'  voice  from  nature.' 

'  February,  1842.  —  I  am  deeply  sad  at  the  loss  of  little 
1  Waldo,  from  whom  I  hoped  more  than  from  almost  any 
'living  being.  I  cannot  yet  reconcile  myself  to  the 
'thought  that  the  sun  shines  upon  the  grave  of  the 
'beautiful  blue-eyed  boy,  and  I  shall  see  him  no  more. 

'  Five  years  he  was  an  angel  to  us,  and  I  know  not 
'  that  any  person  was  ever  more  the  theme  of  thought  to 
'  me.  As  I  walk  the  streets  they  swarm  with  apparently 
'  worthless  lives,  and  the  question  will  rise,  why  he,  why 
'just  he,  who  "bore  within  himself  the  golden  future," 
'  must  be  torn  away  1  His  father  will  meet  him  again ; 
'  but  to  me  he  seems  lost,  and  yet  that  is  weakness.  I 
'  must  meet  that  which  he  represented,  since  I  so  truly 
'  loved  it.  He  was  the  only  child  I  ever  saw,  that  I 
'  sometimes  wished  I  could  have  called  mine. 

'  I  loved  him  more  than  any  child  I  ever  knew,  as  he 
'  was  of  nature  more  fair  and  noble.  You  would  be 
'  surprised  to  know  how  dear  he  was  to  my  imagination. 
'  I  saw  him  but  little,  and  it  was  well ;  for  it  is  unwise 
'  to  bind  the  heart  where  there  is  no  claim.  But  it  is  all 
'gone,  and  is  another  of  the  lessons  brought  by  each 
'  year,  that  we  are  to  expect  suggestions  only,  and  not 


CHILDREN.  63 

'fulfilments,  from  each  form  of  beauty,  and  to  regard 
'them  merely  as  Angels  of  The  Beauty.' 

'June,  1842. —  Why  must  children  be  with  perfect 
'  people,  any  more  than  people  wait  to  be  perfect  to  be 
'friends?  The  secret  is,  —  is  it  not?  —  for  parents  to  feel 
'  and  be  willing  their  children  should  know  that  they  are 
'but'little  older  than  themselves;  only  a  class  above,  and 
'able  to  give  them  some  help  in  learning  their  lesson. 
'  Then  parent  and  child  keep  growing  together,  in  the 
'same  house.  Let  them  blunder  as  we  blundered.  God 
'  is  patient  for  us ;  why  should  not  we  be  for  them?  As- 
'  piration  teaches  always,  and  God  leads,  by  inches.  A 
'  perfect  being  would  hurt  a  child  no  less  than  an  im- 
'  perfect.' 

'It  always  makes  my  annoyances  seem  light,  to  be 
'riding  about  to  visit  these  fine  houses.  Not  that  I  am 
'intolerant  towards  the  rich,  but  I  cannot  help  feeling  at 
'such  times  how  much  characters  require  the  discipline 
'  of  difficult  circumstances.  To  say  nothing  of  the  need 
'  the  soul  has  of  a  peace  and  courage  that  cannot  be  dis- 
'  turbed,  even  as  to  the  intellect,  how  can  one  be  sure  of 
'not  sitting  down  in  the  midst  of  indulgence  to  pamper 
'  tastes  alone,  and  how  easy  to  cheat  one's  self  with  the 
'  fancy  that  a  little  easy  reading  or  writing  is  quite  work. 
'  I  am  safer ;  I  do  not  sleep  on  roses.  I  smile  to  myself, 
'  when  with  these  friends,  at  their  care  of  me.  I  let 
'  them  do  as  they  will,  for  I  know  it  will  not  last  long 
'enough  to  spoil  me.' 

'  I  take  great  pleasure  in  talking  with  Aunt  Mary.* 
*  Miss  Rotch,  of  New  Bedford. 


64  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'  Her  strong  and  simple  nature  checks  not,  falters  not. 
'  Her  experience  is  entirely  unlike  mine,  as,  indeed,  is 
'  that  of  most  others  whom  I  know.  No  rapture,  no 
'subtle  process,  no  slow  fermentation  in  the  unknown 
'depths,  but  a  rill  struck  out  from  the  rock,  clear  and  cool 
'  in  all  its  course,  the  still,  small  voice.  She  says  the 
'  guide  of  her  life  has  shown  itself  rather  as  a  restraining, 
1  than  an  impelling  principle.  I  like  her  life,  too,  as  far 
'  as  I  see  it ;  it  is  dignified  and  true.' 

1  Cambridge,  July,  1842.  —  A  letter  at  Providence 
'  would  have  been  like  manna  in  the  wilderness.  I  came 
'  into  the  very  midst  of  the  fuss,*  and,  tedious  as  it  was  at 
'  the  time,  I  am  glad  to  have  seen  it.  I  shall  in  future  be 
'  able  to  believe  real,  what  I  have  read  with  a  dim  disbelief 
'of  such  times  and  tendencies.  There  is.  indeed,  little 
'  good,  little  cheer,  in  what  I  have  seen :  a  city  full  of 
'  grown-up  people  as  wild,  as  mischief-seeking,  as  full  of 
'prejudice,  careless  slander,  and  exaggeration,  as  a  herd 
'of  boys  in  the  play-ground  of  the  worst  boarding-school. 
'  Women  whom  I  have  seen,  as  the  domestic  cat,  gentle, 
'  graceful,  cajoling,  suddenly  showing  the  disposition,  if 
'  not  the  force,  of  the  tigress.  I  thought  I  appreciated  the 
'monstrous  growths  of  rumor  before,  but  I  never  did. 
'  The  Latin  poet,  though  used  to  a  court,  has  faintly 
'described  what  I  saw  and  heard  often,  in  going  the 
'  length  of  a  street.  It  is  astonishing  what  force,  purity 
'  and  wisdom  it  requires  for  a  human  being  to  keep  clear 
'of  falsehoods.  These  absurdities,  of  course,  are  linked 
'with  good  qualities,  with  energy  of  feeling,  arid  with 
'  a  love  of  morality,  though  narrowed  and  vulgarized  by 

*  The  Dorr  rebellion. 


EXPERIENCE.  65 

'  the  absence  of  the  intelligence  which  should  enlighten. 
'I  had  the  good  discipline  of  trying- to  make  allowance 
1  for  those  making  none,  to  be  charitable  to  their  want  of 
1  charity,  and  cool  without  being  cold.  But  I  don't  know 
'  when  I  have  felt  such  an  aversion  to  my  environment, 
'  and  prayed  so  earnestly  day  by  day,  —  "  O,  Eternal ! 
'  "  purge  from  my  inmost  heart  this  hot  haste  about 
'"ephemeral  trifles,"  and  "keep  back  thy  servant  from 
'  "presumptuous  sins;  let  them  not  have  dominion  over 
'"me." 

'What  a  change  from  the  almost  vestal  quiet  of 
'"Aunt  Mary's"  life,  to  all  this  open-windowed,  open- 
'eyed  screaming  of  "poltroon,"  "nefarious  plan," 
'"entire  depravity,"  &c.  &c.' 

'July,  1842.  Boston. — I  have  been  entertaining  the 
'  girls  here  with  my  old  experiences  at  Groton.  They 
'have  been  very  fresh  in  my  mind  this  week.  Had  I 
'but  been  as  wise  in  such  matters  then  as  now,  how 
'  easy  and  fair  I  might  have  made  the  whole  !  Too  late, 
'  too  late  to  live,  but  not  too  late  to  think  !  And  as  that 
'maxim  of  the  wise  Oriental  teaches,  "the  Acts  of  this 
'  "life  shall  be  the  Fate  of  the  next."  ' 

*  *  *  '  I  would  have  my  friends  tender  of  me,  not 
'because  I  am  frail,  but  because  I  am  capable  of 
'strength; — patient,  because  they  see  in  me  a  principle 
'  that  must,  at  last,  harmonize  all  the  exuberance  of 
'  my  character.  I  did  not  well  understand  what  you 
'  felt,  but  I  am  willing  to  admit  that  what  you  said  of 
'my  "over-great  impetuosity"  is  just.  You  will,  per- 
'  haps,  feel  it  more  and  more.  It  may  at  times  hide  my 
'  better  self.  When  it  does,  speak,  I  entreat,  as  harshly 
'  as  you  feel.  Let  me  be  always  sure  I  know  the  worst 

VOL.  n.  6* 


66  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'I  believe  you  will  be  thus  just,  thus  true,  for  we  are 
'  both  servants  of  Truth.' 

'  August,  1842.  Cambridge.  —  Few  have  eyes  for  the 
'  pretty  little  features  of  a  scene.  In  this,  men  are  not 
'so  good  as  boys.  Artists  are  always  thus  young;  poets 
'are;  but  the  pilgrim  does  not  lay  aside  his  belt  of  steel, 
'  nor  the  merchant  his  pack,  to  worship  the  flowers  on 
'  the  fountain's  brink.  I  feel,  like  Herbert,  the  weight 
'of  "business  to  be  done,"  but  the  bird-like  particle 
'  would  skim  and  sing  at  these  sweet  places.  It  seems 
'strange  to  leave  them;  and  that  we  do  so,  while  so 
'  fitted  to  live  deeply  in  them,  shows  that  beauty  is  the 
'  end  but  not  the  means. 

'I  have  just  been  reading  the  new  poems  of  Tenny- 
'  son.  Much  has  he  thought,  much  suffered,  since  the 
'  first  ecstasy  of  so  fine  an  organization  clothed  all  the 
'  world  with  rosy  light.  He  has  not  suffered  himself  to 
'  become  a  mere  intellectual  voluptuary,  nor  the  songster 
'  of  fancy  and  passion,  but  has  earnestly  revolved  the 
'  problems  of  life,  and  his  conclusions  are  calmly  noble. 
'In  these  later  verses  is  a  still,  deep  sweetness;  how 
'  different  from  the  intoxicating,  sensuous  melody  of  his 
'earlier  cadence!  I  have  loved  him  much  this  time,  and 
'  taken  him  to  heart  as  a  brother.  One  of  his  themes  has 
'  long  been  my  favorite,  —  the  last  expedition  of  Ulysses, 
'  —  and  his,  like  mine,  is  the  Ulysses  of  the  Odyssey, 
'  with  his  deep  romance  of  wisdom,  and  not  the  world- 
'  ling  of  the  Iliad.  How  finely  marked  his  slight  descrip- 
'  tion  of  himself  and  of  Telemachus.  In  Dora,  Locksley 
'  Hall,  the  Two  Voices,  Morte  D' Arthur,  I  find  my  own 
'  life,  much  of  it,  written  truly  out.' 


CONCORD.  67 

'  Concord,  August  25,  1842.  —  Beneath  this  roof  of 
'  peace,  beneficence,  and  intellectual  activity,  I  find  just 
'  the  alternation  of  repose  and  satisfying  pleasure  that  I 
'need.  *  *  * 

'Do  not  find  fault  with  the  hermits  and  scholars. 
'  The  true  text  is :  — 

'  "  Mine  own  Telemachus 

He  does  his  work  —  I  mine." 

'  All  do  the  work,  whether  they  will  or  no ;  but  he  is 
'  "mine  own  Telemachus"  who  does  it  in  the  spirit  of 
'religion,  never  believing  that  the  last  results  can  be 
'  arrested  in  any  one  measure  or  set  of  measures,  listen- 
'  ing  always  to  the  voice  of  the  Spirit,  —  and  who  does 
'  this  more  than 1 

'After  the  first  excitement  of  intimacy  with  him, — 
' when  I  was  made  so  happy  by  his  high  tendency, 
'  absolute  purity,  the  freedom  and  infinite  graces  of  an 
;  intellect  cultivated  much  beyond  any  I  had  known,  — 
'  came  with  me  the  questioning  season.  I  was  greatly 
'disappointed  in  my  relation  to  him.  I  was,  indeed, 
'  always  called  on  to  be  worthy,  —  this  benefit  was  sure 
'in  our  friendship.  But  I  found  no  intelligence  of  my 
'best  self;  far  less  was  it  revealed  to  me  in  new  modes; 
'  for  not  only  did  he  seem  to  want  the  living  faith  which 
'  enables  one  to  discharge  this  holiest  office  of  a  friend, 
'  but  he  absolutely  distrusted  me  in  every  region  of  my 
'  life  with  which  he  was  unacquainted.  The  same  trait 
'  I  detected  in  his  relations  with  others.  He  had  faith 
'in  the  Universal,  but  not  in  the  Individual  Man;  he 
'  met  men,  not  as  a  brother,  but  as  a  critic.  Philosophy 
'  appeared  to  chill  instead  of  exalting  the  poet. 

'  But  now  I  am  better  acquainted  with  him.      His 


68  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'  "accept"  is  true;  the  "I  shall  learn,"  with  which  he 
'  answers  every  accusation,  is  no  less  true.  No  one  can 
'feel  his  limitations,  in  fact,  more  than  he,  though  he 
'  always  speaks  confidently  from  his  present  knowledge 
'as  all  he  has  yet,  and  never  qualifies  or  explains. 
'He  feels  himself  "shut  up  in  a  crystal  cell,"  from 
'  which  only  "  a  great  love  or  a  great  task  could  release 
*  "me,"  and  hardly  expects  either  from  what  remains  in 
'  this  life.  But  I  already  see  so  well  how  these  limita- 
'  tions  have  fitted  him  for  his  peculiar  work,  that  I  can 
'no  longer  quarrel  with  them ;  while  from  his  eyes  looks 
'out  the  angel  that  must  sooner  or  later  break  every 
'  chain.  Leave  him  in  his  cell  affirming  absolute  truth ; 
'protesting  against  humanity,  if  so  he  appears  to  do; 
'the  calm  observer  of  the  courses  of  things.  Surely, 
'"he  keeps  true  to  his  thought,  which  is  the  great 
'  "matter."  He  has  already  paid  his  debt  to  his  time; 
'  how  much  more  he  will  give  we  cannot  know ;  but 
'  already  I  feel  how  invaluable  is  a  cool  mind,  like  his, 
'  amid  the  warring  elements  around  us.  As  I  look  at 
'him  more  by  his  own  law,  I  understand  him  better; 
'  and  as  I  understand  him  better,  differences  melt  away. 
'  My  inmost  heart  blesses  the  fate  that  gave  me  birth  in 
'  the  same  clime  and  time,  and  that  has  drawn  me  into 
'such  a  close  bond  with  him  as,  it  is  my  hopeful  faith, 
'  will  never  be  broken,  but  from  sphere  to  sphere  evei 
'  more  hallowed.  *  *  * 

'  What  did  you  mean  by  saying  I  had  imbibed  mucb 
'of  his  way  of  thought?  I  do  indeed  feel  his  life  steal- 
'ing  gradually  into  mine;  and  I  sometimes  think  that 
'my  work  would  have  been  more  simple,  and  my 
'  unfolding  to  a  temporal  activity  more  rapid  and  easy, 
'if  we  had  never  met.  But  when  I  look  forward  to 


DR.    CHANNING.  69 

'eternal  growth,  I  am  always  aware  that  I  am  far 
'  larger  and  deeper  for  him.  His  influence  has  been  to 
'me  that  of  lofty  assurance  and  sweet  serenity.  He 
1  says,  I  come  to  him  as  the  European  to  the  Hindoo, 
'  or  the  gay  Trouvere  to  the  Puritan  in  his  steeple  hat. 
'  Of  course  this  implies  that  our  meeting  is  partial.  I 
'  present  to  him  the  many  forms  of  nature  and  solicit 
'  with  music ;  he  melts  them  all  into  spirit  and  reproves 
'  performance  with  prayer.  When  I  am  with  God  alone, 
'I  adore  in  silence.  With  nature  I  am  filled  and  grow 
'only.  With  most  men  I  bring  words  of  now  past  life, 
'  and  do  actions  suggested  by  the  wants  of  their  natures 
'rather  than  my  own.  But  he  stops  me  from  doing 
'  anything,  and  makes  me  think.' 

'  October,  1842.  *  *  To  me,  individually,  Dr.  Chan- 
'  ning's  kindness  was  great ;  his  trust  and  esteem  were 
'  steady,  though  limited,  and  I  owe  him  a  large  debt  of 
'  gratitude. 

'His  private  character  was  gentle,  simple,  and  perfectly 
'harmonious,  though  somewhat  rigid  and  restricted  in 
'  its  operations.  It  was  easy  to  love,  and  a  happiness  to 
'  know  him,  though  never,  I  think,  a  source  of  the  highest 
'  social  pleasure  to  be  with  him.  His  department  was 
'ethics;  and  as  a  literary  companion,  he  did  not  throw 
'  himself  heartily  into  the  works  of  creative  genius,  but 
'  looked,  wherever  he  read,  for  a  moral.  In  criticism  he 
'  was  deficient  in  "  individuality,"  if  by  that  the  phrenol- 
'  ogists  mean  the  power  of  seizing  on  the  peculiar  mean- 
'ings  of  special  forms.  I  have  heard  it  said,  that,  under 
'changed  conditions,  he  might  have  been  a  poet.  He 
'  had,  indeed,  the  poetic  sense  of  a  creative  spirit  work- 
'ing  everywhere.  Man  and  nature  were  living  to  him; 


70  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'  and  though  he  did  not  yield  to  sentiment  in  particulars, 
'  he  did  in  universals.  But  his  mind  was  not  recreative, 
'  or  even  representative. 

'  He  was  deeply  interesting  to  me  as  having  so  true  a 
'respect  for  woman.  This  feeling  in  him  was  not  chiv- 
'  alrous ;  it  was  not  the  sentiment  of  an  artist ;  it  was 
'  not  the  afTectionateness  of  the  common  son  of  Adam, 
'  who  knows  that  only  her  presence  can  mitigate  his 
'  loneliness ;  but  it  was  a  religious  reverence.  To  him 
'  she  was  a  soul  with  an  immortal  destiny.  Nor  was 
'  there  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  one  grain  of  masculine 
'  assumption.  He  did  not  wish  that  Man  should  protect 
'  her,  but  that  God  should  protect  her  and  teach  her  the 
'  meaning  of  her  lot. 

1  In  his  public  relations  he  is  to  be  regarded  not  only 
'  as  a  check  upon  the  evil  tendencies  of  his  era,  but  yet 
'  more  as  a  prophet  of  a  better  age  already  dawning  as 
'  he  leaves  us.  In  his  later  days  he  filled  yet  another 
'office  of  taking  .the  middle  ground  between  parties. 
'  Here  he  was  a  fairer  figure  than  ever  before.  His 
'morning  prayer  was,  "Give  me  more  light;  keep  my 
'"soul  open  to  the  light;"  and  it  was  answered.  He 
'  steered  his  middle  course  with  sails  spotless  and  untorn. 
'  He  was  preserved  in  a  wonderful  degree  from  the 
'  prejudices  of  his  own  past,  the  passions  of  the  present, 
'and  the  exaggerations  of  those  who  look  forward  to 
'the  future.  In  the  writings  where,  after  long  and 
'  patient  survey,  he  sums  up  the  evidence  on  both  sides, 
'  and  stands  umpire,  with  the  judicial  authority  of  a 
'pure  intent,  a  steadfast  patience,  and  a  long  experience, 
'  the  mild  wisdom  of  age  is  beautifully  tempered  by  the 
'  ingenuous  sweetness  of  youth.  These  pieces  resemble 
'  charges  to  a  jury ;  they  have  always  been  heard  with 


TRUE   INTERCOURSE.  71 

'affectionate  deference,  if  not  with  assent,  and  have 
'  exerted  a  purifying  influence.'  *  * 

'  November,  1842.  —  When  souls  meet  direct  and  all 
'  secret  thoughts  are  laid  open,  we  shall  need  no  forbear- 
'  ance,  no  prevention,  no  care-taking  of  any  kind.  Love 
'  will  be  pure  light,  and  each  action  simple,  —  too  simple 
'to  be  noble.  But  there  will  not  be  always  so  much 
'to  pardon  in  ourselves  and  others.  Yesterday  we 
'had  at  my  class  a  conversation  on  Faith.  Deeply 
'  true  things  were  said  and  felt.  But  to-day  the  virtue 
'  has  gone  out  of  me ;  I  have  accepted  all,  and  yet  there 
'  will  come  these  hours  of  weariness, — weariness  of  human 
'nature  in  myself  and  others.  "  Could  ye  not  watch  one 
'"hour?"  Not  one  faithfully  through  !**  To  speak 
'  with  open  heart' and  "  tongue  affectionate  and  true,"  — 
'  to  enjoy  real  repose  and  the  consciousness  of  a  thorough 
'  mutual  understanding  in  the  presence  of  friends  when 
'  we  do  meet,  is  what  is  needed.  That  being  granted,  I 
'  do  believe  I  should  not  wish  any  surrender  of  time  or 
'  thought  from  a  human  being.  But  I  have  always  a 

'  sense  that  I  cannot  meet  or  be  met  in  haste  ;  as 

'  said  he  could  not  look  at  the  works  of  art  in  a  chance 
'half-hour,  so  cannot  I  thus  rudely  and  hastily  turn 
'over  the  leaves  of  any  mind.  In  peace,  in  stillness 
'  that  permits  the  soul  to  flow,  beneath  the  open  sky,  I 
'  would  see  those  I  love.' 


72  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

VIII. 

SOCIALISM. 

IN  the  preceding  extracts  will  have  been  noticed 
frequent  reference  to  the  Association  Movement,  which, 
during  the  winter  of  1S40-41,  was  beginning  to  appear 
simultaneously  at  several  points  in  New  England.  In 
Boston  and  its  vicinity  several  friends,  for  whose  charac- 
ters Margaret  felt  the  highest  honor,  and  with  many  of 
whose  views,  theoretic  and  practical,  she  accorded, 
were  earnestly  considering  the  possibility  of  making 
such  industrial,  social,  and  educational  arrangements, 
as  would  simplify  economies,  combine  leisure  for  study 
with  healthful  and  honest  toil,  avert  unjust  collisions  of 
caste,  equalize  refinements,  awaken  generous  affections, 
diffuse  courtesy,  and  sweeten  and  sanctify  life  as  a 
whole.  Chief  among  these  was  the  Rev.  George  Ripley, 
who,  convinced  by  his  experience  in  a  faithful  ministry, 
that  the  need  was  urgent  for  a  thorough  application  of 
the  professed  principles  of  Fraternity  to  actual  relations, 
was  about  staking  his  all  of  fortune,  reputation,  position, 
and  influence,  in  an  attempt  to  organize  a  joint-stock 
community  at  Brook  Farm.  How  Margaret  was 
inclined  to  regard  this  movement  has  been  already 
indicated.  While  at  heart  sympathizing  with  the  hero- 
ism that  prompted  it,  in  judgment  she  considered  it 
premature.  But  true  to  her  noble  self,  though  regretting 
the  seemingly  gratuitous  sacrifice  of  her  friends,  she 
gave  them  without  stint  the  cheer  of  her  encouragement 
and  the  light  of  her  counsel.  She  visited  them  often ; 
entering  genially  into  their  trials  and  pleasures,  and 


SOCIALISM.  73 

missing  no  chance  to  drop  good  seed  in  every  furrow 
upturned  by  the  ploughshare  or  softened  by  the  rain. 
In  the  secluded  yet  intensely  animated  circle  of  these 
co-workers  I  frequently  met  her  during  several  succeed- 
ing years,  and  rejoice  to  bear  testimony  to  the  justice, 
magnanimity,  wisdom,  patience,  and  many-sided  good- 
will, that  governed  her  every  thought  and  deed.  The 
feelings  with  which  she  watched  the  progress  of  this 
experiment  are  thus  exhibited  in  her  journals :  — 

'  My  hopes  might  lead  to  Association,  too,  —  an  asso- 
'ciation,  if  not  of  efforts,  yet  of  destinies.  In  such  an 
'  one  I  live  with  several  already,  feeling  that  each  one, 
'by  acting  out  his  own,  casts  light  upon  a  mutual 
'  destiny,  and  illustrates  the  thought  of  a  master  mind. 
'It  is  a  constellation,  not  a  phalanx,  to  which  I  would 
'  belong.' 

Why  bind  oneself  to  a  central  or  ariy^doctririel) 
:How  much  nobler  stands  a  man  entirely  unpledged,)' 
1  unbound  .'/^Association  may  be  the  great  experiment 
^oTtEe^age,  still  it  is  only  an  experiment.  It  is  not 
'worth  while  to  lay  such  stress  on  it;  let  us  try  it, 
'induce  others  to  try  it,  —  that  is  enough.' 

'  It  is  amusing  to  see  how  the  solitary  characters  tend 
'  to  outwardness,  —  to  association,  —  while  the  social 
'  and  sympathetic  ones  emphasize  the  value  of  solitude, 
'  —  of  concentration,  —  so  that  we  hear  from  each  the 
'  word  which,  from  his  structure,  we  least  expect.' 

'  On  Friday  I  came  to  Brook  Farm.  The  first  day  or 
'  two  here  is  desolate.  You  seem  to  belong  to  nobody 

VOL.  IT.  7 


74  JAMAICA    PLAIN.  « 

'  —  to  have  a  right  to  speak  to  nobody ;  but  very  soon 
'  you  learn  to  take  care  of  yourself,  and  then  the  freedom 
'  of  the  place  is  delightful. 

'  It  is  fine  to  see  how  thoroughly  Mr.  and  Mrs.  R.  act 
'  out,  in  their  own  persons,  what  they  intend. 

'  All  Saturday  I  was  off  in  the  woods.  In  the  evening 
'  we  had  a  general  conversation,  opened  by  me,  upon 
'  Education,  in  its  largest  sense,  and  on  what  we  can  do 
'for  ourselves  and  others.  I  took  my  usual  ground: 
'  The  aim  is  perfection ;  patience  the  road.  The  present 
'  object  is  to  give  ourselves  and  others  a  tolerable  chance. 
'  Let  us  not  be  too  ambitious  in  our  hopes  as  to  immediate 
'  results.  Our  lives  should  be  considered  as  a  tendency, 
'an  approximation  only.  Parents  and  teachers  expect 
'  to  do  too  much.  They  are  not  legislators,  but  only 
'interpreters  to  the  next  generation.  Soon,  very  soon, 
'  does  the  parent  become  merely  the  elder  brother  of  his 

'child;  —  a  little  wiser,  it  is  to  be  hoped.  dif- 

'  fered  from  me  as  to  some  things  I  said  about  the  gra- 
'  dations  of  experience, — that  "to  be  brought  prematurely 
'  "near  perfect  beings  would  chill  and  discourage."  He 
'  thought  it  would  cheer  and  console.  He  spoke  well.  — 

'  with  a  youthful  nobleness.  said  "  that  the  most 

'  "  perfect  person  would  be  the  most  impersonal'"' — philo- 
'sophical  bull  that,  I  trow — "and,  consequently,  would 
'  "  impede  us  least  from  God."  Mr.  R.  spoke  admirably 
'  on  the  nature  of  loyalty.  The  people  showed  a  good 
'  deal  of  the  sans-culotte  tendency  in  their  manners,  — 
'  throwing  themselves  on  the  floor,  yawning,  and  going 
'  out  when  they  had  heard  enough.  Yet,  as  the  majority 
'differ  from  me,  to  begin  with,  — that  being  the  reason 
'  this  subject  was  chosen,  —  they  showed,  on  the  whole, 
'  more  respect  and  interest  than  I  had  expected.  As  I 


BROOK    FARM.  75 

'am  accustomed  to  deference,  however,  and  need  it  for 
'the  boldness  and  animation  which  my  part  requires,  I 
'did  not  speak  with  as  much  force  as  usual.  Still,  I 
'  should  like  to  have  to  face  all  this ;  it  would  have  the 
'  same  good  effects  that  the  Athenian  assemblies  had  on 
'  the  minds  obliged  to  encounter  them. 

'  Sunday.  A  glorious  day ;  —  the  woods  full  of  per- 
'fume.  I  was  out  all  the  morning.  In  the  afternoon, 
'  Mrs.  R.  and  I  had  a  talk.  I  said  my  position  would 

'be  too  uncertain  here,  as  I  could  not  work.*  

'said:  —  "  They  would  all  like  to  work  for  a  person  of 
'"genius.  They  would  not  like  to  have  this  service 
"'claimed  from  them,  but  would  like  to  render  it  of 
'"their  own  accord."  "Yes,"  I  told  her;  "but  where 
'"would  be  my  repose,  when  they  were  always  to  be 
'  "judging  whether  I  was  worth  it  or  not.  It  would  be 
' "  the  same  position  the  clergyman  is  in,  or  the  wander- 
'."  ing  beggar  with  his  harp.  Each  day  you  must  prove 
'  "yourself  anew.  You  are  not  in  immediate  relations 
'  "  with  material  things." 

'We  talked  of  the  principles  of  the  community.  I 
'  said  I  had  not  a  right  to  come,  because  all  the  confi- 
'  dence  in  it  I  had  was  as  an  experiment  worth  trying, 
'  and  that  it  was  a  part  of  the  great  wave  of  inspired 

'  thought.  declared  they  none  of  them  had 

'confidence  beyond  this;  but  they  seem  to  me  to  have. 
'  Then  I  said,  "  that  though  I  entirely  agreed  about  the 
'  "  dignity  of  labor,  and  had  always  wished  for  the  pres- 
'  "  ent  change,  yet  I  did  not  agree  with  the  principle  of 
'  "  paying  for  services  by  time;*  neither  did  I  believe  in 
'  "  the  hope  of  excluding  evil,  for  that  was  a  growth  of 

*  This  was  a  transitional  arrangement  only. 


76 


JAMAICA   PLAIN. 


'"nature,  and  one  condition  of  the  development  of 
1 "  good."  We  had  valuable  discussion  on  these  points. 
'  All  Monday  morning  in  the  woods  again.  Afternoon, 
'  out  with  the  drawing  party ;  I  felt  the  evils  of  want 
'  of  conventional  refinement,  in  the  impudence  with  which 
'  one  of  the  girls  treated  me.  She  has  since  thought  of 
'it  with  regret,  I  notice;  and,  by  every  day's  observa- 
'  tion  of  me,  will  see  that  she  ought  not  to  have  done  it.' 

'  In  the  evening,  a  husking  in  the  barn.  Men,  women, 
'  and  children,  all  engaged.  It  was  a  most  picturesque 
'  scene,  only  not  quite  light  enough  to  bring  it  out  fully. 
'  I  staid  and  helped  about  half  an  hour,  then  took  a  long 
'  walk  beneath  the  stars.' 

'  Wednesday.     I  have  been  too  much  absorbed  to-day 

'  by  others,  and  it  has  made  me  almost  sick.    Mrs. 

;  came  to  see  me,  and  we  had  an  excellent  talk,  which 

'occupied  nearly  all  the  morning.     Then  Mrs. 

'  wanted  to  see  me,  but  after  a  few  minutes  I  found  I 
'could  not  bear  it,  and  lay  down  to  rest.  Then 

'  — • came.     Poor  man ;  —  his  feelings  and  work 

1  are  wearing  on  him.     He  looks  really  ill  now.     Then 

' and  I  went  to  walk  in  the  woods.     I  was  deeply 

'  interested  in  all  she  told  me.  If  I  were  to  write  down 
'  all  she  and  four  other  married  women  have  confided  to 
'  me,  these  three  days  past,  it  would  make  a  cento,  on  one 
'  subject,  in  five  parts.  Certainly  there  should  be  some 
'great  design  in  my  life;  its  attractions  are  so  inva- 
'riable.' 

'In  the  evening,  a  conversation  on  Impulse.  The 
'  reason  for  choosing  this  ,'jubject  is  the  great  tendency 


INTELLECT.  77 

'here  to  advocate  spontaneousness,  at  the  expense  of 
'reflection.  It  was  a  much  better  conversation  than  the 
'one  before.  None  yawned,  for  none  came,  this  time, 
'from  mere  curiosity.  There  were  about  thirty-five 
'  present,  which  is  a  large  enough  circle.  Many  engaged 
'in  the  talk.  I  defended  nature,  as  I  always  do;  —  the 
'spirit  ascending  through,  not  superseding,  nature.  But 
'in  the  scale  of  Sense,  Intellect,  Spirit,  I  advocated  to- 
*  night  the  claims  of  Intellect,  because  those  present 
'  were  rather  disposed  to  postpone  them.  On  the  nature 

'of  Beauty  we  had  good  talk.     spoke  well.     She 

'seemed  in  a  much  more  reverent  humor  than  the  other 
'night,  and  enjoyed  the  large  plans  of  the  universe 

'  which  were  unrolled.     ,  seated  on  the  floor,  with 

'the  light  falling  from  behind  on  his  long  gold  locks, 
'made,  with  sweet,  serene  aspect,  and  composed  tones, 
'  a  good  expose  of  his  way  of  viewing  things.' 

'Saturday.  Well,  good-by,  Brook  Farm.  I  know 
'  more  about  this  place  than  I  did  when  I  came ;  but  the 
'only  way  to  be  qualified  for  a  judge  of  such  an  experi- 
'  ment  would  be  to  become  an  active,  though  unimpas- 
'sioned,  associate  in  trying  it.  Some  good  things  are 
'proven,  and  as  for  individuals,  they  are  gainers.  Has 

'  not vied,  in  her  deeds  of  love,  with  "  my  Cid,"  and 

'  the  holy  Ottilia?  That  girl  who  was  so  rude  to  me  stood 
'  waiting,  with  a  timid  air,  to  bid  me  good-by.  Truly, 
'  the  soft  answer  turneth  away  wrath. 

'  I  have  found  myself  here  in  the  amusing  position  of 
'  a  conservative.  Even  so  is  it  with  Mr.  R.  There  are 
'  too  many  young  people  in  proportion  to  the  others.  I 
'heard  myself  saying,  with  a  grave  air,  "Play  out  the 

VOL.    II.  7* 


78  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

1  "play,  gentles."     Thus,  from  generation  to  generation, 
'  rises  and  falls  the  wave.' 

Again,  a  year  afterward,  she  writes :  — 

1  Here  I  have  passed  a  very  pleasant  week.  The 
'  tone  of  the  society  is  much  sweeter  than  when  I  was 
'  here  a  year  ago.  There  is  a  pervading  spirit  of  mutual 
'tolerance  and  gentleness,  with  great  sincerity.  There 
'  is  no  longer  a  passion  for  grotesque  freaks  of  liberty, 
'  but  a  disposition,  rather,  to  study  and  enjoy  the  liberty 
{ of  law.  The  great  development  of  mind  and  character 
'  observable  in  several  instances,  persuades  me  that  this 
1  state  of  things  affords  a  fine  studio  for  the  soul-sculptor. 
{ To  a  casual  observer  it  may  seem  as  if  there  was  not 
'  enough  of  character  here  to  interest,  because  there  are 
'  no  figures  sufficiently  distinguished  to  be  worth  paint- 
'ing  for  the  crowd;  but  there  is  enough  of  individuality 
'  in  free  play  to  yield  instruction ;  and  one  might  have, 
'from  a  few  months'  residence  here,  enough  of  the 
'  human  drama  to  feed  thought  for  a  long  time.' 

Thus  much  for  Margaret's  impressions  of  Brook 
Farm  and  its  inmates.  What  influence  she  in  turn 
exerted  on  those  she  met  there,  may  be  seen  from  the 
following  affectionate  tribute,  offered  by  one  of  the 
young  girls  alluded  to  in  the  journal :  — 

"Would  that  I  might  aid,  even  slightly,  in  doing 
justice  to  the  noble-hearted  woman  whose  departure  we 
must  all  mourn.  But  I  feel  myself  wholly  powerless  to 
do  so ;  and  after  I  explain  what  my  relation  to  her  was, 


INFLUENCE.  79 

you  will  understand  how  this  can  be,  without  holding 
me  indolent  or  unsympathetic. 

"When  I  first  met  Miss  Fuller,  I  had  already  cut 
from  my  moorings,  and  was  sailing  on  the  broad  sea  of 
experience,  conscious  that  I  possessed  unusual  powers 
of  endurance,  and  that  I  should  meet  with  sufficient  to 
test  their  strength.  She  made  no  offer  of  guidance,  and 
once  or  twice,  in  the  succeeding  year,  alluded  to  the  fact 
that  she  '  had  never  helped  me.'  This  was  in  a  particu- 
lar sense,  of  course,  for  she  helped  all  who  knew  her. 
She  was  interested  in  my  rough  history,  but  could  not 
be  intimate,  in  any  just  sense,  with  a  soul  so  unbalanced, 
so  inharmonious  as  mine  then  was.  For  my  part,  I 
reverenced  her.  She  was  to  me  the  embodiment  of  wis- 
dom and  tenderness.  I  heard  her  converse,  and,  in  the 
rich  and  varied  intonations  of  her  voice,  I  recognized  a 
being  to  whom  every  shade  of  sentiment  was  familiar. 
She  knew,  if  not  by  experience  then  by  no  questionable 
intuition,  how  to  interpret  the  inner  life  of  every  man 
and  woman ;  and,  by  interpreting,  she  could  soothe  and 
strengthen.  To  her,  psychology  was  an  open  book. 
When  she  came  to  Brook  Farm,  it  was  my  delight  to 
wait  on  one  so  worthy  of  all  service,  —  to  arrange  her 
late  breakfast  in  some  remnants  of  ancient  China,  and 
to  save  her,  if  it  might  be,  some  little  fatigue  or  annoy- 
ance, during  each  day.  After  a  while  she  seemed  to 
lose  sight  of  my  more  prominent  and  disagreeable  pecu- 
liarities, and  treated  me  with  affectionate  regard." 

Being  a  confirmed  Socialist,  I  often  had  occasion  to 
discuss  with  Margaret  the  problems  involved  in  the 
"Combined  Order"  of  life;  and  though  unmoved  by  her 
scepticism,  I  could  not  but  admire  the  sagacity,  foresight, 


80  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

comprehensiveness,  and  catholic  sympathy  with  which 
she  surveyed  this  complicated  subject.  Her  objections, 
to  be  sure,  were  of  the  usual  kind,  and  turned  mainly 
upon  two  points,  —  the  difficulty  of  so  allying  labor 
and  capital  as  to  secure  the  hoped-for  cooperation,  and 
the  danger  of  merging  the  individual  in  the  mass  to  such 
degree  as  to  paralyze  energy,  heroism,  and  genius ;  but 
these  objections  were  urged  in  a  way  that  brought  out 
her  originality  and  generous  hopes.  There  was  nothing 
abject,  timid,  or  conventional  in  her  doubts.  The  end 
sought  she  prized ;  but  the  means  she  questioned. 
Though  pleased  in  listening  to  sanguine  visions  of  the 
future,  she  was  slow  to  credit  that  an  organization  by 
"Groups  and  Series"  would  yield  due  incentive  for  per- 
sonal development,  while  ensuring  equilibrium  through 
exact  and  universal  justice.  She  felt,  too,  that  Society 
was  not  a  machine  to  be  put  together  and  set  in  motion, 
but  a  living  body,  whose  breath  must  be  Divine  inspira- 
tion, and  whose  healthful  growth  is  only  hindered  by 
forcing.  Finally,  while  longing  as  earnestly  as  any  So- 
cialist for  u  Liberty  and  Law  made  one  in  living  union," 
and  assured  in  faith  that  an  era  was  coming  of  "  Attrac- 
tive Industry"  and  "Harmony,"  she  was  still  for  her- 
self inclined  to  seek  sovereign  independence  in  com- 
parative isolation.  Indeed,  at  this  period,  Margaret  was 
in  spirit  and  in  thought  preeminently  a  Transcendentalist. 

IX. 

CREDO. 

IN  regard  to  Transcendentalism  again,  there  was  rea- 
son to  rejoice  in  having  found  a  friend,  so  firm  to  keep 


CREDO.  SI 

her  own  ground,  while  so  liberal  to  comprehend  an- 
other's stand-point,  as  was  Margaret.  She  knew,  noi 
only  theoretically,  but  practically,  how  endless  are  the 
diversities  of  human  character  and  of  Divine  discipline, 
and  she  reverenced  fellow-spirits  too  sincerely  ever  to 
wish  to  warp  them  to  her  will,  or  to  repress  their  normal 
development.  She  was  stern  but  in  one  claim,  that  each 
should  be  faithful  to  apparent  leadings  of  the  Truth ; 
and  could  avow  widest  differences  of  conviction  with- 
out feeling  that  love  was  thereby  chilled,  or  the  hand 
withheld  from  cordial  aid.  Especially  did  she  render 
service  by  enabling  one,  —  through  her  blended  insight, 
candor,  and  clearness  of  understanding, — to  see  in  bright 
reflection  his  own  mental  state. 

It  would  be  doing  injustice  to  a  person  like  Mar- 
garet, always  more  enthusiastic  than  philosophical,  to 
attribute  to  her  anything  like  a  system  of  theology ;  for, 
hopeful,  reverent,  aspiring,  and  free  from  scepticism,  she 
felt  too  profoundly  the  vastness  of  the  universe  and  of 
destiny  ever  to  presume  that  with  her  span  rule  she 
could  measure  the  Infinite.  Yet  the  tendency  of  her 
thoughts  can  readily  be  traced  in  the  following  passages 
from  note-books  and  letters :  — 

'  When  others  say  to  me,  and  not  without  apparent 
'ground,  that  "the  Outward  Church  is  a  folly  which 
'"keeps  men  from  enjoying  the  communion  of  the 
* "  Church  Invisible,  and  thai  in  the  desire  to  be  helped 
'  "by,  and  to  help  others,  men  lose  sight  of  the  only 
'  "  sufficient  help,  which  they  might  find  by  faithful 
'  "  solitary  intentness  of  spirit,"  I  answer  it  is  true,  and 
'  the  present  deadness  and  emptiness  summon  us  to  turn 
'our  thoughts  in  that  direction.  Being  now  without 


OZ  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'  any  positive  form  of  religion,  any  unattractive  sym- 
'  bols,  or  mysterious  rites,  we  are  in  the  less  danger  of 
(  stopping  at  surfaces,  of  accepting  a  mediator  itistead 
'  of  the  Father,  a  sacrament  instead  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 
1  And  when  I  see  how  little  there  is  to  impede  and  bewil- 
'  der  us,  I  cannot  but  accept,  —  should  it  be  for  many 
'  years,  —  the  forlornness,  the  want  of  fit  expression,  the 
'  darkness  as  to  what  is  to  be  expressed,  even  that  char- 
1  acterize  our  time. 

'  But  I  do  not,  therefore,  as  some  of  our  friends  do, 
'  believe  that  it  will  always  be  so,  and  that  the  church 
'  is  tottering  to  its  grave,  never  to  rise  again.  The 
'church  was  the  growth  of  human  nature,  and  it  is  so 
'  still.  It  is  but  one  result  of  the  impulse  which  makes 
'  two  friends  clasp  one  another's  hands,  look  into  one 
'  another's  eyes  at  sight  of  beauty,  or  the  utterance  of 
*  a  feeling  of  piety.  So  soon  as  the  Spirit  has  mourned 
'  and  sought,  and  waited  long  enough  to  open  new 
'  depths,  and  has  found  something  to  express,  there 
'  will  again  be  a  Cultus,  a  Church.  Th.e  very  people, 
'  who  say  that  none  is  needed,  make  one  at  once.  They 
'  talk  with,  they  write  to  one  another.  They  listen  to 
'music,  they  sustain  themselves  with  the  poets-;  they 
'  like  that  one  voice  should  tell  the  thoughts  of  sev- 
{  eral  minds,  one  gesture  proclaim  that  the  same  life  is 
'  at  the  same  moment  in  many  breasts. 

'  I  am  myself  most  happy  in  my  lonely  Sundays,  and 
'  do  not  feel  the  need  of  *iy  social  worship,  as  I  have 
'  not  for  several  years,  which  I  have  passed  in  the  same 
1  way.  Sunday  is  to  me  priceless  as  a  day  of  peace  and 
solitary  reflection.  To  all  who  will,  it  may  be  true, 
1  that,  as  Herbert  says  :  — 


COMMUNION.  83 

"  Sundays  the  pillars  are 
On  which  Heaven's  palace  arched  lies; 
The  other  days  fill  up  the  space 
And  hollow  room  with  vanities;" 

'  and  yet  in  no  wise  "  vanities,"  when  filtered  by  the 
'  Sunday  crucible.  After  much  troubling  of  the  waters 
'  of  my  life,  a  radiant  thought  of  the  meaning  and 
'  beauty  of  earthly  existence  will  descend  like  a  heal- 
'  ing  angel.  The  stillness  permits  me  to  hear  a  pure 
'  tone  from  the  One  in  All.  But  often  I  am  not  alone. 
'  The  many  now,  whose  hearts,  panting  for  truth  and 
'  love,  have  been  made  known  to  me,  whose  lives  flow 
'in  the  same  direction  as  mine,  and  are  enlightened 
'  by  the  same  star,  are  with  me.  I  am  in  church,  the 
'•  church  invisible,  undefiled  by  inadequate  expression. 
'  Our  communion  is  perfect ;  it  is  that  of  a  common 
'  aspiration ;  and  where  two  or  three  are  gathered 
'  together  in  one  region,  whether  in  the  flesh  or  the 
'  spirit,  He  will  grant  their  request.  Other  communion 
'  would  be  a  happiness,  —  to  break  together  the  bread  of 
'  mutual  thought,  to  drink  the  wine  of  loving  life,  —  but 
1  it  is  not  necessary. 

'  Yet  I  cannot  but  feel  that  the  crowd  of  men  whose 
'  pursuits  are  not  intellectual,  who  are  not  brought  by 
'  their  daily  walk  into  converse  with  sages  and  poets, 
'  who  win  their  bread  from  an  earth  whose  mysteries 
'  are  not  open  to  them,  whose  worldly  intercourse  is 
'  more  likely  to  stifle  than  to  encourage  the  sparks  of 
'  love  and  faith  in  their  breasts,  need  on  that  day 
'  quickening  more  than  repose.  The  church  is  now 
'rather  a  lecture-room  than  a  place  of  worship;  it 
'should  be  a  school  for  mutual  instruction.  I  must 
'rejoice  when  any  one,  who  lays  spiritual  things  to 


84  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'  heart,  feels  the  call  rather  to  mingle  with  men,  than  to 
'  retire  and  seek  by  himself. 

'  You  speak  of  men  going  up  to  worship  by  "  house- 
*  "  holds,"  &c.  Were  the  actual  family  the  intellectual 
'  family,  this  might  be ;  but  as  social  life  now  is,  how 
'  can  it  ?  Do  we  not  constantly  see  the  child,  born  in 
'  the  flesh  to  one  father,  choose  in  the  spirit  another  ? 
'  No  doubt  this  is  wrong,  since  the  sign  does  not  stand 
'  for  the  thing  signified,  but  it  is  one  feature  of  the  time. 
'  How  will  it  end  1  Can  families  worship  together  till 
'  it  does  end  ? ' 

'  I  have  let  myself  be  cheated  out  of  my  Sunday,  by 

'  going  to  hear  Mr. .  As  he  began  by  reading  the 

'  first  chapter  of  Isaiah,  and  the  fourth  of  John's  Epistle, 
{ I  made  mental  comments  with  pure  delight.  "  Bring 
'  "  no  more  vain  oblations."  "  Every  one  that  loveth  is 
'  "  born  of  God,  and  knoweth  God."  "  We  know  that 
'  "  we  dwell  in  Him,  and  He  in  us,  because  he  hath 
'  "  given  us  of  the  Spirit."  Then  pealed  the  organ,  full 
'  of  solemn  assurance.  But  straightway  uprose  the 
'  preacher  to  deny  mysteries,  to  deny  the  second  birth, 
'  to  deny  influx,  and  to  renounce  the  sovereign  gift  of 
'  insight,  for  the  sake  of  what  he  deemed  a  "  rational" 
1  exercise  of  will.  As  he  spoke  I  could  not  choose  but 
'  deny  him  all  through,  and  could  scarce  refrain  from 
'  rising  to  expound,  in  the  light  of  my  own  faith,  the 
'  words  of  those  wiser  Jews  which  had  been  read.  Was 
'  it  not  a  sin  to  exchange  friendly  greeting  as  we  parted, 
and  yet  tell  him  no  word  of  what  was  in  my  mind  ? 

'  Still  I  saw  why  he  looked  at  things  as  he  did.  The 
'old  religionists  did  talk  about  "grace,  conversion,"  and 
4  the  like,  technically,  without  striving  to  enter  into  the 


UNITARIANISM.  85 

4  idea,  till  they  quite  lost  sight  of  it.  Undervaluing  the 
'  intellect,  they  became  slaves  of  a  sect,  instead  of  organs 
'  of  the  Spirit.  This  Unitarianism  has  had  its  place. 
4  There  was  a  time  for  asserting  "  the  dignity  of  human 
4  "  nature,"  and  for  explaining  total  depravity  into  tem- 
'  porary  inadequacy,  — a  time  to  say  that  the  truths  of 
4  essence,  if  simplified  at  all  in  statement  from  their  infinite 
4  variety  of  existence,  should  be  spoken  of  as  One,  rather 
4  than  Three,  though  that  number,  if  they  would  only 
4  let  it  reproduce  itself  simply,  is  of  highest  significance. 
4  Yet  the  time  seems  now  to  have  come  for  reinterpreting 
4  the  old  dogmas.  For  one  I  would  now  preach  the 
4  Holy  Ghost  as  zealously  as  they  have  been  preaching 
4  Man,  and  faith  instead  of  the  understanding,  and  mys- 
4  ticism  instead  &c.  But  why  go  on  1  It  certainly  is 
4  by  no  means  useless  to  preach.  In  my  experience  of 
'  the  divine  gifts  of  solitude,  I  had  forgotten  what  might 
4  be  done  in  this  other  way.  That  crowd  of  upturned 
'  faces,  with  their  look  of  unintelligent  complacency ! 
4  Give  tears  and  groans,  rather,  if  there  be  a  mixture  of 

4  physical  excitement  and  bigotry.     Mr.  is  heard 

4  because,  though  he  has  not  entered  into  the  secret  of 
'  piety,  he  wishes  to  be  heard,  and  with  a  good  purpose, 
•  —  can  make  a  forcible  statement,  and  kindle' himself 
4  with  his  own  thoughts.  How  many  persons  must 
4  there  be  who  cannot  worship  alone,  since  they  are 
'  content  with  so  little !  Can  none  wake  the  spark  that 
'  will  melt  them,  till  they  take  beautiful  forms  1  Were 
4  one  to  come  now,  who  could  purge  us  with  fire,  how 
4  would  these  masses  glow  and  be  clarified! 

4  Mr. made  a  good  suggestion:  —  "Such  things 

4  "  could  not  be  said  in  the  open  air."  Let  men  preach 
'for  the  open  air,  and  speak  now  thunder  and  light- 

VOT..   IT.  8 


86  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'  ning,  now  dew  and  rustling  leaves.  Yet  must  the 
'  preacher  have  the  thought  of  his  day  before  he  can 
'  be  its  voice.  None  have  it  yet;  but  some  of  our  friends, 
:  perhaps,  are  nearer  than  the  religious  world  at  large, 
'because  neither  ready  to  dogmatize,  as  if  they  had 
'  got  it,  nor  content  to  stop  short  with  mere  impressions 
'  and  presumptuous  hopes.  I  feel  that  a  great  truth  is 
'  coming.  Sometimes  it  seems  as  if  we  should  have  it 
'  among  us  in  a  day.  Many  steps  of  the  Temple  have 
'  been  ascended,  steps  of  purest  alabaster,  and  of  shin- 
'  ing  jasper,  also  of  rough-brick,  and  slippery  moss- 
'  grown  stone.  We  shall  reach  what  we  long  for,  since 
'  we  trust  and  do  not  fear,  for  our  God  knows  not  fear, 
'  only  reverence,  and  his  plan  is  All  in  All.' 

'  Who  can  expect  to  utter  an  absolutely  pure  and  clear 
'  tone  on  these  high  subjects?  Our  earthly  atmosphere 
1  is  too  gross  to  permit  it.  Yet,  a  severe  statement  has 
'  rather  an  undue  charm  for  me,  as  I  have  a  nature  of 
'  great  emotion,  which  loves  free  abandonment.  I  am 
1  ready  to  welcome  a  descending  Moses,  come  to  turn  all 
1  men  from  idolatries.  For  my  priests  have  been  very 
'generally  of  the  Pagan  greatness,  revering  nature  and 
'  seeking  excellence,  but  in  the  path  of  progress,  not  of 
'  renunciation.  The  lyric  inspirations  of  the  poet  come 
'  very  differently  on\the  ear  from  the  "  still,  small  voice." 
'  They  are,  in  fact,  all  one  revelation ;  but  one  must  be 
'  at  the  centre  to  interpret  it.  To  that  centre  I  have 
'  again  and  again  been  drawn,  but  my  large  natural 
;  life  has  been,  as  yet,  but  partially  transfused  with  spir- 
1  itual  consciousness.  I  shun  a  premature  narrowness, 
'and  bide  my  time.  But  I  am  drawn  to  look  at 
'  natures  who  take  a  different  way,  because  they  seem 


SOCRATES.  87 

to  complete  my  being  for  me.  They,  too,  tolerate  me 
'  in  my  many  phases  for  the  same  reason,  probably.  It 
'  pleased  me  to  see,  in  one  of  the  figures  by  which  the 
'  Gnostics  illustrated  the  progress  of  man,  that  Severity 
'  corresponded  to  Magnificence.' 

'  In  my  quiet  retreat,  I  read  Xenophon,  and  became 
'more  acquainted  with  his  Socrates.  I  had  before 
'  known  only  the  Socrates  of  Plato,  one  much  more 
'  to  my  mind.  Socrates  conformed  to  the  Greek  Church, 
'  and  it  is  evident  with  a  sincere  reverence,  because  it 
'  was  the  growth  of  the  national  mind.  He  thought 
'  best  to  stand  on  its  platform,  and  to  illustrate,  though 
'with  keen  truth,  by  received  forms.  This  was  his 
'  right  way,  as  his  influence  was  naturally  private,  for 
'  individuals  who  could  in  some  degree  respond  to  the 
'  teachings  of  his  daemon  ;  he  knew  the  multitude 
'would  not  understand  him.  But  it  was  the  other 
'  way  that  Jesus  took,  preaching  in  the  fields,  and  pluck- 
'  ing  ears  of  corn  on  the  Sabbath.' 

'-Is  it  my  defect  of  spiritual  experience,  that  while 
'  that  weight  of  sagacity,  which  is  the  iron  to  the  dart 
'  of  genius,  is  needful  to  satisfy  me,  the  undertone  of 
'  another  and  a  deeper  knowledge  does  not  please,  does 
'  not  command  me  ?  Even  in  Handel's  Messiah,  I  am 
'  half  incredulous,  half  impatient,  when  the  sadness  of 
'  the  second  part  comes  to  check,  before  it  interprets,  the 
'  promise  of  the  first ;  and  the  strain,  "  Was  ever  sorrow 
'  "  like  to  his  sorrow,"  is  not  for  me.  as  I  have  been,  as 
1 1  am.  Yet  Handel  was  worthy  to  speak  of  Christ. 
'  The  great  chorus,  "  Since  by  man  came  death,  by  man 
' '  came  also  the  resurrection  of  the  dead ;  for  as  in 


00  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'  "  Adam  all  die,  even  so  in  Christ  shall  all  be  made 
'  "  alive,"  if  understood  in  the  large  sense  of  every  man 
'  his  own  Saviour,  and  Jesus  only  representative  of  the 
'  way  all  must  walk  to  accomplish  our  destiny,  is  indeed 
'  a  worthy  gospel.' 

1  Ever  since  told  me  how  his  feelings  had 

'  changed  towards  Jesus,  I  have  wished  much  to 
'  write  some  sort  of  a  Credo,  out  of  my  present  state, 
'  but  have  had  no  time  till  last  night.  I  have  not  sat- 
'  isfied  myself  in  the  least,  and  have  written  very  has- 
'tily,  yet,  though  not  full  enough  to  be  true,  this 
'  statement  is  nowhere  false  to  me. 

*  *  *  <  Whatever  has  been  permitted  by  the  law  of 
'  being,  must  be  for  good,  and  only  in  time  not  good. 
'  We  trust,  and  are  led  forward  by  experience.  Light 
'  gives  experience  of  outward  life,  faith  of  inward  life, 

1  and  then  we  discern,  however  faintly,  the  necessary 
'  harmony  of  the  two.     The  moment  we  have  broken 
'  throug-h  an  obstruction,  not  accidentally,  but  by  the 
'  aid  of  faith,  we  begin  to  interpret  the  Universe,  and  to 
'  apprehend  why  evil  is  permitted.     Evil  is  obstruction  ; 
'  Good  is  accomplishment. 

'  It  would  seem  that  the  Divine  Being  designs  through 
{ man  to  express  distinctly  what  the  other  forms  of 
'  nature  only  intimate,  and  that  wherever  man  remains 
'  imbedded  in  nature,  whether  from  sensuality,  or 
'  because  he  is  not  yet  awakened  to  consciousness,  the 
'  purpose  of  the  whole  remains  unfulfilled.  Hence  our 
'  displeasure  when  Man  is  not  in  a  sense  above  Nature. 
'  Yet,  when  he  is  not  so  closely  bound  with  all  other 
'  manifestations,  as  duly  to  express  their  Spirit,  we  are 
'  also  displeased.  He  must  be  at  once  the  highest  form  of 


MAN.  89 

'  Nature,  and  conscious  of  the  meaning  she  has  been 
'  striving  successively  to  unfold  through  those  below 
1  him.  Centuries  pass ;  whole  races  of  men  are  expended 
'  in  the  effort  to  produce  one  that  shall  realize  this  Ideal, 
'  and  publish  Spirit  in  the  human  form.  Here  and  there 
'  is  a  degree  of  success.  Life  enough  is  lived  through  a 
'man,  to  justify  the  great  difficulties  attendant  on  the 
'  existence  of  mankind.  And  then  throughout  all  realms 
'of  thought  vibrates  the  affirmation,  "This  is  my 
1  "  beloved  Son,  in  whom  I  am  well  pleased." 

'  I  do  not  mean  to  lay  an  undue  stress  upon  the  posi- 
'  tion  and  office  of  man,  merely  because  I  am  of  his  race, 
'  and  understand  best  the  scope  of  his  destiny.  The 
'history  of  the  earth,  the  motions  of  the  heavenly 
'  bodies,  suggest  already  modes  of  being  higher  than 
'  ours,  and  which  fulfil  more  deeply  the  office  of  inter- 
'  pretation.  But  I  do  suppose  man's  life  to  be  the  rivet 
'  in  one  series  of  the  great  chain,  and  that  all  higher 
'  existences  are  analogous  to  his.  Music  suggests  their 
'  mode  of  being,  and,  when  carried  up  on  its  strong 
'  wings,  we  foresee  how  the  next  step  in  the  soul's 
'ascension  shall  interpret  man  to  the  universe,  as 
'  he  now  interprets  those  forms  beneath  himself.  *  * 

'  The  law  of  Spirit  is  identical,  whether  displaying 
'  itself  as  genius,  or  as  piety,  but  its  modes  of  expression 
'  are  distinct  dialects.  All  souls  desire  to  become  the 
'  fathers  of  souls,  as  citizens,  legislators,  poets,  artists, 
'  sages,  saints ;  and,  so  far  as  they  are  true  to  the  law  of 
'  their  incorruptible  essence,  they  are  all  Anointed,  all 
'  Emanuel,  all  Messiah ;  but  they  are  all  brutes  and 
'  devils  so  far  as  subjected  to  the  law  of  corruptible  exis- 
'  tence.  *  * 

'  As  wherever  there  is  a  tendency  a  form  is  gradually 

VOL.  n.  8* 


90  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'evolved,  as  its  Type,  —  so  is  it  the  law  of  each  class 
1  and  order  of  human  thoughts  to  produce  a  form  which 
'  shall  be  the  visible  representation  of  its  aim  and  striv- 
'  ings,  and  stand  before  it  as  its  King.  This  effort  to  pro- 
cduce  a  kingly  type  it  was,  that  clothed  itself  with 
'  power  as  Brahma  or  Osiris,  that  gave  laws  as  Confu- 
'  cius  or  Moses,  that  embodied  music  and  eloquence  in 
'  the  Apollo.  This  it  was  that  incarnated  itself,  at  one 
'  time  as  Plato,  at  another  as  Michel  Angelo,  at  another 
1  as  Luther,  &c.  Ever  seeking,  it  has  produced  Ideal 
'  after  Ideal  of  the  beauty,  into  which  mankind  is  capa- 
'  ble  of  being  developed ;  and  one  of  the  highest,  in  some 
'  respects  the  very  highest,  of  these  kingly  types,  was 
{ the  life  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth. 

'  Few  believe  more  in  his  history  than  myself,  and  it 
'  is  very  dear  to  me.  I  believe,  in  my  own  way,  in  the 
'  long  preparation  of  ages  for  his  coming,  and  the  truth 
'  of  prophecy  that  announced  him.  I  see  a  necessity,  in 
'  the  character  of  Jesus,  why  Abraham  should  have 
'  been  the  founder  of  his  nation,  Moses  its  lawgiver, 
'  and  David  its  king  and  poet.  I  believe  in  the  gen- 
'  esis  of  the  patriarchs,  as  given  in  the  Old  Testament. 
'  I  believe  in  the  prophets,  —  that  they  foreknew  not 
'  only  what  their  nation  longed  for,  but  what  the  devel- 
'  opment  of  universal  Man  requires,  —  a  Redeemer,  an 
'  Atoner,  a  Lamb  of  God,  taking  away  the  sins  of  the 
'  world.  I  believe  that  Jesus  came  when  the  time  was 
{  ripe,  and  that  he  was  peculiarly  a  messenger  and  Son 
'  of  God.  I  have  nothing  to  say  in  denial  of  the  story 
1  of  his  birth  ;  whatever  the  actual  circumstances  were, 
'  he  was  born  of  a  Virgin,  and  the  tale  expresses  a  truth 
'  of  the  soul.  I  have  no  objection  to  the  miracles,  except 
where  they  do  not  happen  to  please  one's  feelings. 


JESUS    CHRIST.  91 

'  Why  should  not  a  spirit,  so  consecrate  and  intent, 
'  develop  new  laws,  and  make  matter  plastic  ?  I 
'can  imagine  him  walking  the  waves,  without  any 
'  violation  of  my  usual  habits  of  thought.  He  could  not 
'  remain  in  the  tomb,  they  say;  certainly  not,  — death  is 
'  impossible  to  such  a  being.  He  remained  upon  earth ; 
'  most  true,  and  all  who  have  met  him  since  on  the 
'  way,  have  felt  their  hearts  burn  within  them.  He 
'ascended  to  heaven;  surely,  how  could  it  be  other- 
'wise?  *  * 

'  Would  I  could  express  with  some  depth  what  I  feel 
'  as  to  religion  in  my  very  soul ;  it  would  be  a  clear  note 
'  of  calm  assurance.  But  for  the  present  this  must  suf- 
'  fice  with  regard  to  Christ.  I  am  grateful  here,  as 
'  everywhere,  when  Spirit  bears  fruit  in  fulness;  it  attests 
'  the  justice  of  aspiration,  it  kindles  faith,  it  rebukes 
'  sloth,  it  enlightens  resolve.  But  so  does  a  beautiful 
'  infant.  Christ's  life  is  only  one  modification  of  the 
'  universal  harmony.  I  will  not  loathe  sects,  persuasions. 
'  systems,  though  I  cannot  abide  in  them  one  moment, 
'  for  I  see  that  by  most  men  they  are  still  needed.  To 
'  them  their  banners,  their  tents  ;  let  them  be  Fire-wor- 
'  shippers,  Platonists,  Christians ;  let  them  live  in  the 
'  shadow  of  past  revelations.  But,  oh,  Father  of  our 
'  souls,  the  One,  let  me  seek  Thee  !  I  would  seek  Thee 
'  in  these  forms,  and  in  proportion  as  they  reveal  Thee, 
'  they  teach  me  to  go  beyond  themselves.  I  would  learn 
'  from  them  all,  looking  only  to  Thee  !  But  let  me  set 
'  no  limits  from  the  past,  to  my  own  soul,  or  to  any 
'  soul. 

'  Ages  may  not  produce  one  worthy  to  loose  the  shoes 
'of  the  Prophet  of  Nazareth;  yet  there  will  surely  be 
'  another  manifestation  of  that  Word  which  was  in 


WS  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'the  beginning.  And  all  future  manifestations  will 
'come,  like  Christianity,  "not  to  destroy  the  law  and 
'  "  the  prophets,  but  to  fulfil."  The  very  greatness  of 
'  this  manifestation  demands  a  greater.  As  an  Abraham 
'  called  for  a  Moses,  and  a  Moses  for  a  David,  so  does 
'  Christ  for  another  Ideal.  We  want  a  life  more  com- 
'plete  and  various  than  that  of  Christ.  We  have  had  a 
'  Messiah  to  teach  and  reconcile;  let  us  now  have  a  Man 
'  to  live  out  all  the  symbolical  forms  of  human  life,  with 
'  the  calm  beauty  of  a  Greek  God,  with  the  deep  con- 
'sciousness  of  a  Moses,  with  the  holy  love  and  purity 
'of  Jesus.' 

X. 

SELF-SOVEREIGNTY. 

To  one  studying  the  signs  of  the  times,  it  was  quite 
instructive  to  watch  the  moods  of  a  mind  so  sensitive  as 
Margaret's;  for  her  delicate  meter  indicated  in  advance 
each  coming  change  in  the  air-currents  of  thought.  But 
I  was  chiefly  interested  in  the  processes  whereby  she 
was  gaining  harmony  and  unity.  The  more  one  studied 
her,  the  more  plainly  he  saw  that  her  peculiar  power 
was  the  result  of  fresh,  fervent,  exhaustless,  and  indomi- 
table affections.  The  emotive  force  in  her,  indeed,  was 
immense  in  volume,  and  most  various  in  tendency ;  and 
it  was  wonderful  to  observe  the  outward  equability  of 
one  inwardly  so  impassioned. 

This  was,  in  fact,  the  first  problem  to  be  solved  in 
gaining  real  knowledge  of  her  commanding  character : 
"  How  did  a  person,  by  constitution  so  impetuous,  become 
so  habitually  serene  ?  "  In  temperament  Margaret  seemed 


TRANSFORMATION.  93 

a  Bacchante,*  prompt  for  wild  excitement,  and  fearless 
to  tread  by  night  the  mountain  forest,  with  song  and 
dance  'of  delirious  mirth ;  yet  constantly  she  wore  the 
laurel  in  token  of  purification,  and,  with  water  from 
fresh  fountains,  cleansed  the  statue  of  Minerva.  Stag- 
nancy and  torpor  were  intolerable  to  her  free  and  elastic 
impulses;  a  brilliant  fancy  threw  over  each  place  and 
incident  Arcadian  splendor ;  and  eager  desire,  with  ener- 
getic purposes,  filled  her  with  the  consciousness  of  large 
latent  life ;  and  yet  the  lower  instincts  were  duly  subordi- 
nated to  the  higher,  and  dignified  self-control  ordered  her 
deportment.  Somehow,  according  to  the  doctrine  of  the 
wise  Jacob  Boehme,  the  fierce,  hungry  fire  had  met  in 
embrace  the  meek,  cool  water,  and  was  bringing  to  birth 
the  pleasant  light-flame  of  love.  The  transformation, 
though  not  perfected,  was  fairly  begun. 

Partly  I  could  see  how  this  change  had  been  wrought. 
Ill  health,  pain,  disappointment,  care,  had  tamed  her 
spirits.  A  wide  range  through  the  romantic  literature 
of  ancient  and  modern  times  had  exalted  while  expend- 
ing her  passions.  In  the  world  of  imagination,  she  had 
discharged  the  stormful  energy  which  would  have  been 
destructive  in  actual  life.  And  in  thought  she  had  bound 
herself  to  the  mast  while  sailing  past  the  Sirens.  Through 
sympathy,  also,  from  childhood,  with  the  tragi-comedy 

*  This  sentence  was  written  before  I  was  aware  that  Margaret,  as  will 
be  seen  hereafter,  had  used  the  same  symbol  to  describe  Madame  Sand. 
The  first  impulse,  of  course,  when  I  discovered  this  coincidence,  was  to 
strike  out  the  above  passage  ;  yet,  on  second  thought,  I  have  retained  it, 
as  indicating  an  actual  resemblance  between  these  two  grand  women.  In 
Margaret,  however,  the  benediction  of  their  noble-hearted  sister,  Eliza- 
beth Barrett,  had  already  been  fulfilled  ;  for  she  to  "woman's  claim" 
had  ever  joined  "  the  angel-grace 

"  Of  a  pure  genius  sanctified  from  blame." 


94  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

of  many  lives  around  her.  she  had  gained  experience  of 
the  laws  and  limitations  of  providential  order.  Gradu- 
ally, too,  she  had  risen  to  higher  planes  of  hope,  whence 
opened  wider  prospects  of  destiny  and  duty.  More  than 
all,  by  that  attraction  of  opposites  which  a  strong  will  is 
most  apt  to  feel,  she  had  sought,  as  chosen  companions, 
persons  of  scrupulous  reserve,  of  modest  coolness,  and 
severe  elevation  of  view.  Finally,  she  had  been  taught, 
by  a  discipline  specially  fitted  to  her  dispositions,  to  trust 
the  leadings  of  the  Divine  Spirit.  The  result  was,  that 
at  this  period  Margaret  had  become  a  Mystic.  Her 
prisoned  emotions  found  the  freedom  they  pined  for  in 
contemplation  of  nature's  exquisite  harmonies, — in  poetic 
regards  of  the  glory  that  enspheres  human  existence, 
when  seen  as  a  whole  from  beyond  the  clouds,  —  and 
above  all  in  exultant  consciousness  of  life  ever  influent 
from  the  All-Living. 

A  few  passages  from  her  papers  will  best  illustrate  this 
proneness  to  rapture. 

1  My  tendency  is,  I  presume,  rather  to  a  great  natural 
'  than  to  a  deep  religious  life.  But  though  others  may 
'be  more  conscientious  and  delicate,  few  have  so  steady 
'a  faith  in  Divine  Love.  I  may  be  arrogant  and 
'impetuous,  but  I  am  never  harsh  and  morbid.  May 
'  there  not  be  a  mediation,  rather  than  a  conflict,  between 
'piety  and  genius?  Greek  and  Jew,  Italian  arid  Saxon, 
'  are  surely  but  leaves  on  one  stem,  at  last.' 

'I  am  in  danger  of  giving  myself  up  to  experiences 
'till  they  so  steep  me  in  ideal  passion  that  the  desired 
'  goal  is  forgotten  in  the  rich  present.  Yet  I  think  I  am 
'  learning  how  to  use  life  more  wisely.5 


RAPTURE.  95 

*  Forgive  me,  beautiful  ones,  who  earlier  learned  the 
'  harmony  of  your  beings,  —  with  whom  eye,  voice,  and 
'  hand  are  already  true  to  the  soul !  Forgive  me  still 
'  some  "  lispings  and  stammerings  of  the  passionate  age." 
'  Teach  me,  —  me,  also,  —  to  utter  my  paean  in  its  full 
'  sweetness.  These  long  lines  are  radii  from  one  centre; 
1  aid  me  to  fill  the  circumference.  Then  each  moment, 
'  each  act,  shall  be  true.  The  pupil  has  found  the  car- 
'  buncle,*  but  knows  not  yet  how  to  use  it  day  by  day. 
'But  "though  his  companions  wondered  at  the  pupil, 
'"the  master  loved  him."  He  loves  me,  my  friends. 
'  Do  ye  trust  me.  Wash  the  tears  and  black  stains 
'  from  the  records  of  my  life  by  the  benignity  of  a  true 
'glance;  make  each  discord  harmony,  by  striking  again 
'  the  key-note ;  forget  the  imperfect  interviews,  burn  the 
'  imperfect  letters,  till  at  last  the  full  song  bursts  forth, 
'  the  key-stone  is  given  from  heaven  to  the  arch,  the  past 
'  is  all  pardoned  and  atoned  for,  and  we  live  forever  in 
'  the  Now.'  *  * 

£  Henceforth  I  hope  I  shall  not  write  letters  thus  full 
'  of  childish  feeling ;  for  in  feeling  I  am  indeed  a  child, 
'  and  the  least  of  children.  Soon  I  must  return  into  the 
'  Intellect,  for  there,  in  sight,  at  least,  I  am  a  man,  and 
'could  write  the  words  very  calmly  and  in  steadfast 
'  flow.  But,  lately,  the  intellect  has  been  so  subordinated 
'  to  the  soul,  that  I  am  riot  free  to  enter  the  Basilikon, 
'  and  plead^and  hear  till  I  am  called.  But  let  me  not 
'  stay  too  long  in .  this  Sicilian  valley,  gathering  my 
'flowers,  for  "night  cometh."  ' 

'The  other  evening,  while  hearing   the  Creation,  in 

*  Novalis. 


96  JAMAICA  PLAIN. 

'the  music  of  "There  shoots  the  healing  plant,"  I  felt 
'what  I  would  ever  feel  for  suffering  souls.  Some- 
'  where  in  nature  is  the  Moly,  (he  Nepenthe,  desired  from 
'the  earliest  ages  of  mankind.  No  wonder  the  music 
'dwelt  so  exultingly  on  the  passage :  — 

'  ^  In  native  worth  and  honor  clad." 

'Yes;  even  so  would  I  ever  see  man.  I  will  wait,  and 
'  never  despair,  through  all  the  dull  years.' 

'I  am  "too  fiery."  Even  so.  Ceres  put  her  foster 
'  child  in  the  fire  because  she  loved  him.  If  they  thought 
'  so  before,  will  they  not  far  more  now  ?  Yet  I  wish  to 
'  be  seen  as  I  am,  and  would  lose  all  rather  than  soften 
'  away  anything.  Let  my  friends  be  patient  and  gentle, 
'  and  teach  me  to  be  so.  I  never  promised  any  one 
'  patience  or  gentleness,  for  those  beautiful  traits  are  not 
'natural  to  me;  but  I  would  learn  them.  Can  I  not?' 

'  Of  all  the  books,  and  men,  and  women,  that  have 
'  touched  me  these  weeks  past,  what  has  most  entered 
'my  soul  is  the  music  I  have  heard,  —  the  masterly 
'  expression  from  that  violin ;  the  triumph  of  the 
'  orchestra,  after  the  exploits  on  the  piano ;  Braham,  in 
'  his  best  efforts,  when  he  kept  true  to  the  dignity  of 
'art;  the  Messiah,  which  has  been  given  on  two  succes- 
'  sive  Sundays,  and  the  last  time  in  a  way  that  deeply 
'expressed  its  divine  life;  but  above  all,  Beethoven's 
'  seventh  symphony.  What  majesty !  what  depth ! 
'  what  tearful  sweetness !  what  victory !  This  was 
'  truly  a  fire  upon  an  altar.  There  are  a  succession 
'of  soaring  passages,  near  the  end  of  the  third  move- 


BEAUTY.  97 

'ment,  which  touch  me  most  deeply.  Though  soar- 
'ing,  they  hold  on  with  a  stress  which  almost  breaks 
'  the  chains  of  matter  to  the  hearer.  O,  how  refreshing, 
'  after  polemics  and  philosophy,  to  soar  thus  on  strong 
'  wings !  Yes,  Father,  I  will  wander  in  dark  ways 
'with  the  crowd,  since  thou  seest  best  for  me  to  be  tied 
'  down.  But  only  in  thy  free  ether  do  I  know  myself. 
'When  I  read  Beethoven's  life,  I  said,  "I  will  never 
'"repine."  When  I  heard  this  symphony,  I  said,  "I 
'  "  will  triumph."  ' 

'  To-day  I  have  finished  the  life  of  Raphael,  by  Quatre- 
'mere  de  Quincy,  which  has  so  long  engaged  me.  It 
'  scarce  goes  deeper  than  a  catalogue  raisomiee,  but  is 
'very  complete  in  its  way.  I  could  make  all  that 
'  splendid  era  alive  to  me,  and  inhale  the  full  flower  of 
'theSanzio.  Easily  one  soars  to  worship  these  angels 
'  of  Genius.  To  venerate  the  Saints  you  must  well  nigh 
'  be  one. 

'  I  went  out  upon  the  lonely  rock  which  commands  so 
'  delicious  a  panoramic  view.  A  very  mild  breeze  had 
'sprung  up  after  the  extreme  heat.  A  sunset  of  the 
'  melting  kind  was  succeeded  by  a  perfectly  clear  moon- 
'rise.  Here  I  sat,  and  thought  of  Raphael.  I  was 
'  drawn  high  up  in  the  heaven  of  beauty,  and  the  mists 
'  were  dried  from  the  white  plumes  of  contemplation.' 

'Only  by  emotion  do  we  know  thee,  Nature.  To 
'lean  upon  thy  heart,  and  feel  its  pulses  vibrate  to 
'our  own;  —  that  is  knowledge,  for  that  is  love,  the 
'  love  of  infinite  beauty,  of  infinite  love.  Thought  will 
'  never  make  us  be  born  again. 

1  My  fault  is  that  I  think  I  feel  too  much.  O  that  my 
'friends  would  teach  me  that  "simple  art  of  not  too 

VOL.    II.  9 


98  JAMAICA  PLAIN. 

'  "  much !  "     How  can  I  expect  them  to  bear  the  cease- 
:  less  eloquence  of  my  nature  7 ' 

'  Often  it  has  seemed  that  I  have  come  near  enough  to 
'  the  limits  to  see  what  they  are.  But  suddenly  arises 
'afar  the  Fata  Morgana,  and  tells  of  new  Sicilies,  of 
1  their  flowery  valleys  and  fields  of  golden  grain.  Then, 
' as  I  would  draw  near,  my  little  bark  is  shattered  on 
'  the  rock,  and  I  am  left  on  the  cold  wave.  Yet  with 
'  my  island  in  sight  I  do  not  sink.' 

'  I  look  not  fairly  to  myself,  at  the  present  moment. 
'If  noble  growths  are  always  slow,  others  may  ripen  far 
'  worthier  fruit  than  is  permitted  to  my  tropical  heats 
'  and  tornadoes.  Let  me  clasp  the  cross  on  my  breast, 
1  as  I  have  done  a  thousand  times  before.' 

*  Let  me  but  gather  from  the  earth  one  full-grown  fragrant  flower  ; 
'  Within  my  bosom  let  it  bloom  through  its  one  blooming  hour  ; 

'  Within  my  bosom  let  it  die,  and  to  its  latest  breath 

'  My  own  shall  answer,  "  Having  lived,  I  shrink  not  now  from  death." 

'  It  is  this  niggard  halfness  that  turns  my  heart  to  stone  ; 

'  'Tis  the  cup  seen,  not  tasted,  that  makes  the  infant  moan. 

•  For  once  let  me  press  firm  my  lips  upon  the  moment's  brow, 
'  For  once  let  me  distinctly  feel  I  am  all  happy  now, 

'  And  bliss  shall  seal  a  blessing  upon  that  moment's  brow.' 

'I  was  in  a  state  of  celestial  happiness,  which  lasted 
'a  great  while.  For  months  I  was  all  radiant  with 
'faith,  and  love,  and  life.  I  began  to  be  myself.  Night 
'and  day  were  equally  beautiful,  and  the  lowest  and 
'  highest  equally  holy.  Before,  it  had  seemed  as  if  the 
'  Divine  only  gleamed  upon  me ;  but  then  it  poured  into 
'  and  through  me  a  tide  of  light.  I  have  passed  down 
'  from  the  rosy  mountain,  now ;  but  I  do  not  forget  its 


ILLUMINATION.  99 

'pure  air,  nor  how  the  storms  looked  as  they  rolled 
'  beneath  my  feet.  I  have  received  my  assurance,  and 
'  if  the  shadows  should  lie  upon  me  for  a  century,  they 
'could  never  make  me  forgetful  of  the  true  hour. 
'  Patiently  I  bide  my  time.' 

The  last  passage  describes  a  peculiar  illumination,  to 
which  Margaret  often  referred  as  the  period  when  her 
earthly  being  culminated,  and  when,  in  the  noon-tide  of 
loving  enthusiasm,  she  felt  wholly  at  one  with  God, 
with  Man,  and  the  Universe.  It  was  ever  after,  to  her, 
an  earnest  that  she  was  of  the  Elect.  In  a  letter  to  one 
of  her  confidential  female  friends,  she  thus  fondly  looks 
back  to  this  experience  on  the  mount  of  transfiguration :  — 

'You  know  how,  when  the  leadings  of  my  life  found 
'  their  interpretation,  I  longed  to  share  my  joy  with  those 
'  I  prized  most ;  for  I  felt  that  if  they  could  but  urider- 
'  stand  the  past  we  should  meet  entirely.  They  received 
'  rne,  some  more,  some  less,  according  to  the  degree  of 
'  intimacy  between  our  natures.  But  now  I  have  done 
'with  the  past,  and  again  move  forward.  The  path 
'  looks  more  difficult,  but  I  am  better  able  to  bear  its 
'  trials.  We  shall  have  much  communion,  even  if  not 
'  in  the  deepest  places.  I  feel  no  need  of  isolation,  but 
'only  of  temperance  in  thought  and  speech,  that  the 
'  essence  may  not  evaporate  in  words,  but  grow  plente- 
'  ous  within.  The  Life  will  give  me  to  my  own.  I  am 
'  not  yet  so  worthy  to  love  as  some  others  are,  because 
'  my  manifold  nature  is  not  yet  harmonized  enough  to 
'be  faithful,  and  I  begin  to  see  how  much  it  was  the 
'  want  of  a  pure  music  in  me  that  has  made  the  good 


100  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'  doubt  me.  Yet  have  I  been  true  to  the  best  light  I 
'  had,  and  if  I  am  so  now  much  will  be  given. 

'  During  my  last  weeks  of  solitude  I  was  very  happy, 
'and  all  that  had  troubled  me  became  clearer.  The 
'  angel  was  not  weary  of  waiting  for  Gunhilde,  till  she 
'had  unravelled  her  mesh  of  thought,  and  seeds  of 
'mercy,  of  purification,  were  planted  in  the  breast. 
'Whatever  the  past  has  been,  I  feel  that  I  have  always 
'been  reading  on  and  on,  and  that  the  Soul  of  a14  souls 
'has  been  patient  in  love  to  mine.  New  assurances 
'  were  given  me,  that  if  I  would  be  faithful  and  humble, 
'there  was  no  experience  that  would  not  tell  its  heavenly 
'errand.  If  shadows  have  fallen,  already  they  give  way 
'  to  a  fairer  if  more  tempered  light ;  and  for  the  present 
'  I  am  so  happy  that  the  spirit  kneels. 

'  Life  is  richly  worth  living,  with  its  continual  revela- 
'  tions  of  mighty  woe,  yet  infinite  hope;  and  I  take  it  to 
'my  breast.  Amid  these  scenes  of  beauty,  all  that  is 
'little,  foreign,  unworthy,  vanishes  like  a  dream.  So 
'  shall  it  be  some  time  amidst  the  Everlasting  Beauty, 
'  when  true  joy  shall  begin  and  never  cease.' 

Filled  thus  as  Margaret  was  with  ecstasy,  she  was  yet 
more  than  willing, — even  glad,  — to  bear  her  share  in  the 
universal  sorrow.  Well  she  knew  that  pain  must  be  pro- 
portioned to  the  fineness  and  fervor  of  her  organization; 
that  the  very  keenness  of  her  sensibility  exposed  her  to 
constant  disappointment  or  disgust:  that  no  friend,  how- 
ever faithful,  could  meet  the  demands  of  desires  so  eager, 
of  sympathies  so  absorbing.  Contrasted  with  her  radiant 
visions,  how  dreary  looked  actual  existence :  how  gall- 
ing was  the  friction  of  petty  hindrances;  how  heavy 
the  yoke  of  drudging  care !  Even  success  seemed  failure, 


RENUNCIATION.  101 

when  measured  by  her  conscious  aim ;  and  experience 
had  brought  out  to  consciousness  excesses  and  defects, 
which  humbled  pride  while  shaming  self-confidence. 
But  suffering  as  she  did  with  all  the  intensity  of  so 
passionate  a  nature,  Margaret  still  welcomed  the  search- 
ing discipline.  'It  is  only  when  Persephone  returns  from 
'  lower  earth  that  she  weds  Dyonysos,  and  passes  from 
'central  sadness  into  glowing  joy,'  she  writes.  And 
again :  '  I  have  no  belief  in  beautiful  lives ;  we  are  born 
'to  be  mutilated;  and  the  blood  must  flow  till  in  every 
'  vein  its  place  is  supplied  by  the  Divine  ichor.'  And 
she  reiterates :  '  The  method  of  Providence  with  me  is 
'evidently  that  of  "cross-biassing,"  as  Herbert  hath  it.' 
In  a  word,  to  her  own  conscience  and  to  intimate  friends 
she  avowed,  without  reserve,  that  there  was  in  her 
'much  rude  matter  that  needed  to  be  spiritualized.' 
Comment  would  but  weaken  the  pathos  of  the  follow- 
ing passages,  in  which  so  plainly  appears  a  once  wilful 
temper  striving,  with  child-like  faith,  to  obey  :  — 

1 1  have  been  a  chosen  one ;  the  lesson  of  renuncia- 
'tion  was  early,  fully  taught,  and  the  heart  of  stone 
'quite  broken  through.  The  Great  Spirit  wished  to 
'  leave  me  no  refuge  but  itself.  Convictions  have  been 
'  given,  enough  to  guide  me  many  years  if  I  am  stead- 
'  fast.  How  deeply,  how  gratefully  I  feel  this  blessing, 
'  as  the  fabric  of  others'  hopes  are  shivering  round  me. 
'Peace  will  not  always  flow  thus  softly  in  my  life;  but, 
'  O,  our  Father !  how  many  hours  has  He  consecrated 
'to  Himself.  How  often  has  the  Spirit  chosen  the 
'time,  when  no  ray  came  from  without,  to  descend 
'  upon  the  orphan  life  ! ' 

VOL.  n.  9* 


102  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'  A  humbler,  tenderer  spirit !  Yes,  I  long  for  it.  But 
'how  to  gain  it?  I  see  no  way  but  prayerfully  to  bend 
'  myself  to  meet  the  hour.  Let  friends  be  patient  with 
'ine,  and  pardon  some  faint-heartedness.  The  buds 
'  will  shiver  in  the  cold  air  when  the  sheaths  drop.  It 
'will  not  be  so  long.  The  word  "Patience"  has  been 
'spoken;  it  shall  be  my  talisman.  A  nobler  courage 
'will  be  given,  with  gentleness  and  humility.  My  con- 
'viction  is  clear  that  all  my  troubles  are  needed,  and 
'  that  one  who  has  had  so  much  light  thrown  upon  the 
'  path,  has  no  excuse  for  faltering  steps.' 

'  Could  we  command  enthusiasm  ;  had  we  an  interest 
'  with  the  gods  which  would  light  up  those  sacred  fires 
'  at  will,  we  should  be  even  seraphic  in  our  influences. 
'  But  life,  if  not  a  complete  waste  of  wearisome  hours, 
'must  be  checkered  with  them;  and  I  find  that  just 
'  those  very  times,  when  I  feel  all  glowing  and  radiant 
'  in  the  happiness  of  receiving  and  giving  out  again  the 
'divine  fluid,  are  preludes  to  hours  of  languor,  weari- 
'  ness,  and  paltry  doubt,  born  of — 

'  "  The  secret  soul's  mistrust 
To  find  her  fair  ethereal  wings 
Weighed  down  by  vile,  degraded  dust." 

'  To  this,  all  who  have  chosen  or  been  chosen  to  a  life 
'  of  thought  must  submit.  Yet  I  rejoice  in  my  heritage. 
'  Should  I  venture  to  complain  1  Perhaps,  if  I  were  to 
'reckon  up  the  hours  of  bodily  pain,  those  passed  in 
'society  with  which  I  could  not  coalesce,  those  of 
'ineffectual  endeavor  to  penetrate  the  secrets  of  nature 
'and  of  art,  or,  worse  still,  to  reproduce  the  beautiful  in 
'  some  way  for  myself,  I  should  find  they  far  outnum- 


CONTRASTS.  103 

'bered  those  of  delightful  sensation,  of  full  and  soothing 
'thought,  of  gratified  tastes  and  affections,  and  of  proud 
'  hope.  Yet  these  last,  if  few,  how  lovely,  how  rich  in 
'  presage !  None,  who  have  known  them,  can  in  their 
'  worst  estate  fail  to  hope  that  they  may  be  again  upborne 
1  to  higher,  purer  blue.' 

'As  I  was  steeped  in  the  divine  tenth  book  of  the 

'  Republic,  came 's  letter,  in  which  he  so  insultingly 

'retracts  his  engagements.  I  finished  the  book  obsti- 
:  nately,  but  could  get  little  good  of  it ;  then  went  to  ask 
'  comfort  of  the  descending  sun  in  the  woods  and  fields. 
'What  a  comment  it  was  on  the  disparity  between  my 
'pursuits  and  my  situation  to  receive  such  a  letter  while 
'  reading  that  book  !  However,  I  will  not  let  life's  mean 
'perplexities  blur  from  my  eye  the  page  of  Plato;  nor, 
'if  natural  tears  must  be  dropt,  murmur  at  a  lot,  which, 
'  with  all  its  bitterness,  has  given  time  and  opportunity 
'to  cherish  an  even  passionate  love  for  Truth  and 
'  Beauty.' 

'  Black  Friday  it  has  been,  and  my  heart  is  well  nigh 
'  wearied  out.  Shall  I  never  be  able  to  act  and  live  with 
'persons  of  views  high  as  my  own?  or,  at  least,  with 
'some  steadiness  of  feeling  for  me  to  calculate  upon? 
'Ah,  me!  what  woes  within  and  without;  what  assaults 
'of  folly;  what  mean  distresses;  and,  oh,  what  wounds 
£  from  cherished  hands  !  Were  ye  the  persons  who  should 
'stab  thus?  Had  I,  too,  the  Roman  right  to  fold  my 
'  robe  about  me  decently,  and  breathe  the  last  sigh  !  The 
'  last !  Horrible,  indeed,  should  sobs,  deep  as  these,  be 
'drawn  to  all  eternity.  But  no;  life  could  not  hold  out 
'for  more  than  one  lease  of  sorrow.  This  anguish. 


104  JAMAICA   PLAIN. 

'  however,  will  be  wearied  out,  as  I  know  by  experience, 
'  alas  !  of  how  many  such  hours.' 

'I  am  reminded  to-day  of  the  autumn  hours  at 
'Jamaica  Plain,  where,  after  arranging  everything  for 
'others  that  they  wanted  of  me,  I  found  myself,  at 
'last,  alone  in  my  still  home,  where  everything,  for 
'once,  reflected  my  feelings.  It  was  so  still,  the  air 
'  seemed  full  of  spirits.  How  happy  I  was  !  with  what 
'  sweet  and  solemn  happiness !  All  things  had  tended  to 
'  a  crisis  in  me,  and  I  was  in  a  higher  state,  mentally 
'and  spiritually,  than  I  ever  was  before  or  shall  be 
'  again,  till  death  shall  introduce  me  to  a  new  sphere.  I 
'  purposed  to  spend  the  winter  in  study  and  self-collec- 
'  tion,  and  to  write  constantly.  I  thought  I  should  thus 
'  be  induced  to  embody  in  beautiful  forms  all  that  lay  in 
'  my  mind,  and  that  life  would  ripen  into  genius.  But 
'  a  very  little  while  these  fair  hopes  bloomed ;  and,  since 
'  I  was  checked  then,  I  do  never  expect  to  blossom  forth 
'on  earth,  and  all  postponements  come  naturally.  At 
'  that  time  it  seemed  as  if  angels  left  me.  Yet,  now,  I 
'  think  they  still  are  near.  Renunciation  appears  to  be 
'  entire,  and  I  quite  content ;  yet,  probably,  't  is  no  such 
'thing,  and  that  work  is  to  be  done  over  and  over 
'  again.' 

'Do  you  believe  our  prayers  avail  for  one  another? 
'  and  that  happiness  is  good  for  the  soul  ?  Pray,  then, 
'  for  me,  that  I  may  have  a  little  peace,  —  some  green 
'  and  flowery  spot,  'mid  which  my  thoughts  may  rest ; 
'  yet  not  upon  fallacy,  but  only  upon  something  genuine. 
'  I  am  deeply  homesick,  yet  where  is  that  home  ?  If 
'  not  on  earth,  why  should  we  look  to  heaven  ?  I  would 


PERPLEXITY.  105 

4  fain  truly  live  wherever  I  must  abide,  and  bear  with 
'  full  energy  on  my  lot,  whatever  it  is.  He,  who  alone 
'  knoweth,  will  affirm  that  I  have  tried  to  work  whole- 
'  hearted  from  an  earnest  faith.  Yet  my  hand  is  often 
'languid,  arid  my  heart  is  slow.  I  would  be  gone;  but 
•whither?  I  know  not;  if  I  cannot  make  this  spot  of 
'ground  yield  the  corn  and  roses,  famine  must  be  my  lot 
'  forever  and  ever,  surely.' 

'I  remember  how  at  a  similar  time  of  perplexity, 
1  when  there  were  none  to  counsel,  hardly  one  to  sym- 
'pathize,  and  when  the  conflicting  wishes  of  so  many 
'  whom  I  loved  pressed  the  aching  heart  on  every  side, 
'after  months  of  groping  and  fruitless  thought,  the 
'  merest  trifle  precipitated  the  whole  mass ;  all  became 
'clear  as  crystal,  and  I  saw  of  what  use  the  tedious 
'  preparation  had  been,  by  the  deep  content  I  felt  in  the 
'  result.' 

'  Beethoven !  Tasso !  It  is  well  to  think  of  you ! 
'  What  sufferings  from  baseness,  from  coldness  !  How 
'rare  and  momentary  were  the  flashes  of  joy,  of  confi- 
'dence  and  tenderness,  in  these  noblest  lives!  Yet 
'could  not  their  genius  be  repressed.  The  Eternal 
'  Justice  lives.  O,  Father,  teach  the  spirit  the  meaning 
'of  sorrow,  and  light  up  the  generous  fires  of  love  and 
'hope  and  faith,  without  which  I  cannot  live ! ' 

'  What  signifies  it  that  Thou  dost  always  give  me  to 
'drink  more  deeply  of  the  inner  fountains?  And  why 
'do  I  seek  a  reason  for  these  repulsions  and  strange 
£  arrangements  of  my  mortal  lot,  when  I  always  gain 
'from  them  a  deeper  love  for  all  men,  and  a  deeper  trust 


106  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'in  Thee?    Wonderful  are  thy  ways!      But  lead  me 
'  the  darkest  and  the  coldest  as  Thou  wilt.' 

1  Please,  good  Genius  of  my  life,  to  make  me  very 
'  patient,  resolute,  gentle,  while  no  less  ardent ;  and  after 
'having  tried  me  well,  please  present,  at  the  end  of 
'  some  thousand  years  or  so,  a  sphere  of  congenial  and 
'consecutive  labors;  of  heart-felt,  heart-filling  wishes 
'  carried  out  into  life  on  the  instant ;  of  aims  obviously, 
'  inevitably  proportioned  to  my  highest  nature.  Some- 
'time,  in  God's  good  time,  let  me  live  as  swift  and 
'earnest  as  a  flash  of  the  eye.  Meanwhile,  let  me 
'  gather  force  slowly,  and  drift  along  lazily,  like  yonder 
'  cloud,  and  be  content  to  end  in  a  few  tears  at  last.' 

'  To-night  I  lay  on  the  sofa,  and  saw  how  the  flame 
'shot  up  from  beneath,  through  the  mass  of  coal  that 
'  had  been  piled  above.  It  shot  up  in  wild  beautiful  jets, 
'  and  then  unexpectedly  sank  again,  and  all  was  black, 
'unsightly  and  forlorn.  And  thus,  I  thought,  is  it  with 
'my  life  at  present.  Yet  if  the  fire  beneath  persists 
'and  conquers,  that  black  dead  mass  will  become  all 
'radiant,  life-giving,  fit  for  the  altar  or  the  domestic 
'  hearth.  Yes,  and  it  shall  be  so.' 

'  My  tendency  at  present  is  to  the  deepest  privacy. 
'  Where  can  I  hide  till  I  am  given  to  myself?  Yet  I 
'  love  the  others  more  and  more.  When  they  are  with 
'me  I  must  give  them  the  best  from  my  scrip.  I  see 
'their  infirmities,  and  would  fain  heal  them,  forgetful 
'  of  my  own  !  But  am  I  left  one  moment  alone,  then,  a 
'  poor  wandering  pilgrim,  but  no  saint,  I  would  seek  the 
'  shrine,  and  would  therein  die  to  the  world.  Then  if 


PRAYER.  107 

*  from  the  poor  relics  some  miracles  might  be  wrought, 
1  that  should  be  for  my  fellows.  Yet  some  of  the  saints 
'  were  able  to  work  in  their  generation,  for  they  had 
'  renounced  all ! ' 

'Forget,  if  you  can,  all  of  petulant  or  overstrained 
'  that  may  have  displeased  you  in  me,  and  commend  me 
'  in  your  prayers  to  my  best  self.  When,  in  the  solitude 
'of  the  spirit,  comes  upon  you  some  air  from  the  dis- 
c  tance,  a  breath  of  aspiration,  of  faith,  of  pure  tender- 
'  ness,  then  believe  that  the  Power  which  has  guided 
'me  so  faithfully,  emboldens  my  thoughts  to  frame  a 
'  prayer  for  you.' 

'  Beneath  all  pain  inflicted  by  Nature,  be  riot  only 
'  serene,  but  more ;  let  it  avail  thee  in  prayer.  Put  up, 
'  at  the  moment  of  greatest  suffering,  a  prayer ;  not  for 
'  thy  own  escape,  but  for  the  enfranchisement  of  some 
'  being  dear  to  thee,  and  the  Sovereign  Spirit  will  accept 
'  thy  ransom.' 

'  Strive,  strive,  my  soul,  to  be  innocent ;  yes !  benefi- 
'cent.  Does  any  man  wound  thee?  not  only  forgive, 
'  but  work  into  thy  thought  intelligence  of  the  kind  of 
'  pain,  that  thou  mayest  never  inflict  it  on  another  spirit. 
'  Then  its  work  is  done ;  it  will  never  search  thy  whole 
<  nature  again.  O,  love  much,  and  be  forgiven  ! ' 

'  No !  we  cannot  leave  society  while  one  clod  remains 
'  unpervaded  by  divine  life.  We  cannot  live  and  grow 
'in  consecrated  earth,  alone.  Let  us  rather  learn  to 
'  stand  up  like  the  Holy  Father,  and  with  extended 
'  arms  bless  the  whole  world.' 


108  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'  It  will  be  happiness  indeed,  if,  on  passing  this  first 
'stage,  we  are  permitted,  in  some  degree,  to  alleviate  the 
'  ills  of  those  we  love,  —  to  lead  them  on  a  little  way ;  to 
'  aid  them  when  they  call.  Often  it  seems  to  me,  it 
1  would  be  sweet  to  feel  that  I  had  certainly  conferred 
'  one  benefit.  All  my  poor  little  schemes  for  others  are 
'  apparently  blighted,  and  now,  as  ever,  I  am  referred  to 
c  the  Secular  year  for  the  interpretation  of  my  moments.' 

In  one  of  Margaret's  manuscripts  is  found  this  beauti- 
ful symbol :  — '  There  is  a  species  of  Cactus,  from  whose 
'  outer  bark,  if  torn  by  an  ignorant  person,  there  exudes 
'  a  poisonous  liquid ;  but  the  natives,  who  know  the 
'  plant,  strike  to  the  core,  and  there  find  a  sweet,  refresh- 
'ing  juice,  that  renews  their  strength.'  Surely  the  pre- 
ceding extracts  prove  that  she  was  learning  how  to  draw 
life-giving  virtue  from  the  very  heart  of  evil.  No  super- 
ficial experience  of  sorrow  embittered  her  with  angry 
despair;  but  through  profound  acceptance,  she  sought  to 
imbibe,  from  every  ill,  peace,  purity  and  gentleness. 

The  two  fiery  trials  through  which  she  had  been 
made  to  pass,  and  through  which  she  was  yet  to  pass 
again  and  again,  —  obstruction  to  the  development  of 
her  genius,  and  loneliness  of  heart,  —  were  the  very  fur- 
nace needed  to  burn  the  dross  from  her  gold,  till  it  could 
fitly  image  the  Heavenly  Refiner.  By  inherited  traits, 
and  indiscreet  treatment,  self-love  had  early  become  so 
excessive  that  only  severest  discipline  could  transmute 
it  to  disinterestedness.  Pity  for  her  own  misfortunes 
had,  indeed,  taught  her  to  curb  her  youthful  scorn  for 
mediocrity,  and  filled  her  with  considerateness  and  deli- 
cate sensibility.  Constant  experience,  too,  of  the  won- 


HUMILITY.  109 

derful  modes  whereby  her  fate  was  shaped  by  overruling 
mercy,  had  chastened  her  love  of  personal  sway,  and 
her  passion  for  a  commanding  career;  and  Margaret 
could  humble  herself,  —  did  often  humble  herself,  — 
with  an  all-resigning  contrition,  that  was  most  touching 
to  witness  in  one  naturally  so  haughty.  Of  this  the  fol- 
lowing letter  to  a  valued  friend  gives  illustration  :  — 

{I  ought,  I  know,  to  have  laid  aside  my  own  cares 
1  and  griefs,  been  on  the  alert  for  intelligence  that  would 
•  gratify  you,  and  written  letters  such  as  would  have  been 
:of  use  and  given  pleasure  to  my  wise,  tender,  ever 
'  faithful  friend.  But  no ;  I  first  intruded  on  your  happi- 
'  ness  with  my  sorrowful  epistles,  and  then,  because  you 
'  did  not  seem  to  understand  my  position,  with  sullen 
1  petulance  I  resolved  to  write  no  more.  Nay,  worse ;  I 
'tried  to  harden  my  heart  against  you,  and  felt,  "If  you 
'  "cannot  be  all,  you  shall  be  nothing." 

'  It  was  a  bad  omen  that  I  lost  the  locket  you  gave 
'me,  which  I  had  constantly  worn.  Had  that  been 
1  daily  before  my  eyes,  to  remind  me  of  all  your  worth, 
'  —  of  the  generosity  with  which  you,  a  ripe  and  wise 
'  character,  received  me  to  the  privileges  of  equal  friend- 
1  ship ;  of  the  sincerity  with  which  you  reproved  and  the 
'  love  with  which  you  pardoned  my  faults ;  of  how  much 
'you  taught  me,  and  bore  with  from  me,  —  it  would 
'  have  softened  the  flint  of  my  heart,  and  I  should  have 
'  relaxed  from  my  isolation. 

'  How  shall  I  apologize  for  feelings  which  I  now 
'recognize  as  having  been  so  cold,  so  bitter  and  unjust? 
'  I  can  only  say  I  have  suffered  greatly,  till  the  tone  of 
'my  spirits  seems  destroyed.  Since  I  have  been  at 
'leisure  to  realize  how  very  ill  I  have  been,  under  what 

VOL.  it.  10 


110  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'  constant  pain  and  many  annoyances  I  have  kept  myself 
'upright,  and  how,  if  I  have  not  done  my  work,  I  have 
'learned  my  lesson  to  the  end,  I  should  be  inclined  to 
'  excuse  myself  for  every  fault,  except  this  neglect  and 
'  ingratitude  against  friends.  Yet,  if  you  can  forgive,  I 
'  will  try  to  forgive  myself,  and  I  do  think  I  shall  never 
'  so  deeply  sin  again.' 

Yet,  though  thus  frank  to  own  to  herself  and  to  her 
peers  her  errors,  Margaret  cherished  a  trust  in  her  powers, 
a  confidence  in  her  destiny,  and  an  ideal  of  her  being, 
place  and  influence,  so  lofty  as  to  be  extravagant.  In 
the  morning-hour  and  mountain-air  of  aspiration,  her 
shadow  moved  before  her,  of  gigantic  size,  upon  the 
snow-white  vapor. 

In  accordance  with  her  earnest  charge,  '  Be  true  as 
'  Truth  to  me,'  I  could  not  but  expose  this  propensity  to 
self-delusion  ;  and  her  answer  is  her  best  explanation  and 
defence:  —  'I  protest  against  your  applying  to  me,  even 
'in  your  most  transient  thought,  such  an  epithet  as 
'"determined  exaggeration."  Exaggeration,  if  you 
'  will ;  but  not  determined.  No ;  I  would  have  all  open 
'  to  the  light,  and  would  let  my  boughs  be  pruned,  when 
'  they  grow  rank  and  unfruitful,  even  if  I  felt  the  knife 
'  to  the  quick  of  my  being.  Very  fain  would  I  have  a 
'rational  modesty,  without  self-distrust;  and  may  the 
'  knowledge  of  my  failures  leaven  my  soul,  and  check 
'  its  intemperance.  If  you  saw  me  wholly,  you  would 
'not,  I  think,  feel  as  you  do;  for  you  would  recognize 
'  the  force,  that  regulates  my  life  and  tempers  the  ardor 
'  with  an  eventual  calmness.  You  would  see,  too,  that 
'  the  more  I  take  my  flight  in  poetical  enthusiasm,  the 
'  stronger  materials  I  bring  back  for  my  nest.  Certainly 


ARROGANCE.  Ill 

'  I  am  nowise  yet  an  angel ;  but  neither  am  I  an  utterly 
'weak  woman,  and  far  less  a  cold  intellect.  God  is 
'rarely  afar  off.  Exquisite  nature  is  all  around.  Life 
'  affords  vicissitudes  enough  to  try  the  energies  of  the 
'  human  will.  I  can  pray,  I  can  act,  I  can  learn,  I  can 
( constantly  immerse  myself  in  the  Divine  Beauty.  But 
'I  also  need  to  love  my  fellow-men,  and  to  meet  the 
'responsive  glance  of  my  spiritual  kindred.' 

Again,  she  says:  —  'I  like  to  hear  you  express  your 
1  sense  of  my  defects.  The  word  "arrogance"  does 
'not,  indeed,  appear  to  me  to  be  just;  probably  because 
'I  do  not  understand  what  you  mean.  But  in  due 
'time  I  doubtless  shall;  for  so  repeatedly  have  you 
'used  it,  that  it  must  stand  for  something  real  in  my 
'large  and  rich,  yet  irregular  and  unclarified  nature. 
'  But  though  I  like  to  hear  you,  as  I  say,  and  think 
'somehow  your  reproof  does  me  good,  by  myself,  I 
'return  to  my  native  bias,  and  feel  as  if  there  was 
'  plenty  of  room  in  the  universe  for  my  faults,  and  as  if 
'  I  could  not  spend  time  in  thinking  of  them,  when  so 
'  many  things  interest  me  more.  I  have  no  defiance  or 
'coldness,  however,  as  to  these  spiritual  facts  which  I 
'do  not  know;  but  I  must  follow  my  own  law,  and  bide 
:  my  time,  even  if,  like  (Edipus,  I  should  return  a  crimi- 
'nal,  blind  and  outcast,  to  ask  aid  from  the  gods.  Such 
'  possibilities,  I  confess,  give  me  great  awe ;  for  I  have 
'  more  sense  than  most,  of  the  tragic  depths  that  may 
'open  suddenly  in  the  life.  Yet,  believing  in  God, 
'  anguish  cannot  be  despair,  nor  guilt  perdition.  I  feel 
'  sure  that  I  have  never  wilfully  chosen,  and  that  my 
'  life  has  been  docile  to  such  truth  as  was  shown  it.  In 
'  an  environment  like  mine,  what  may  have  seemed  too 
'lofty  or  ambitious  in  my  character  was  absolutely 


112  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

'  needed  to  keep  the  heart  from  breaking  and  enthusiasm 
1  from  extinction.' 

Such  Egoism  as  this,  though  lacking  the  angel  grace 
of  unconsciousness,  has  a  stoical  grandeur  that  com- 
mands respect.  Indeed,  in  all  that  Margaret  spoke, 
wrote,  or  did,  no  cynic  could  detect  the  taint  of  mean- 
ness. Her  elation  came  not  from  opium  fumes  of 
vanity,  inhaled  in  close  chambers  of  conceit,  but  from 
the  stimulus  of  sunshine,  fresh  breezes,  and  swift  move- 
ment upon  the  winged  steed  of  poesy.  Her  existence 
was  bright  with  romantic  interest  to  herself.  There 
was  an  amplitude  and  elevation  in  her  aim,  which  were 
worthy,  as  she  felt,  of  human  honor  and  of  heavenly 
aid ;  and  she  was  buoyed  up  by  a  courageous  good-will, 
amidst  all  evils,  that  she  knew  would  have  been  recog- 
nized as  heroic  in  the  chivalric  times,  when  "every 
morning  brought  a  noble  chance."  Neither  was  her 
self-regard  of  an  engrossing  temper.  On  the  contrary, 
the  sense  of  personal  dignity  taught  her  the  worth  of  the 
lowliest  human  being,  and  her  intense  desire  for  har- 
monious conditions  quickened  a  boundless  compassion 
for  the  squalid,  downcast,  and  drudging  multitude.  She 
aspired  to  live  in  majestic  fulness  of  benignant  and  joy- 
ful activity,  leaving  a. track  of  light  with  every  footstep ; 
and,  like  the  radiant  Iduna,  bearing  to  man  the  golden 
apples  of  immortality,  she  would  have  made  each  meet- 
ing with  her  fellows  rich  with  some  boon  that  should 
never  fade,  but  brighten  in  bloom  forever. 

This  characteristic  self-esteem  determined  the  quality 
of  Margaret's  influence,  which  was  singularly  pene- 
trating, and  most  beneficent  where  most  deeply  and 
continuously  felt.  Chance  acquaintance  with  her,  like 
a  breath  from  the  tropics,  might  have  prematurely  burst 


INFLUENCE.  113 

the  buds  of  feeling  in  sensitive  hearts,  leaving  after 
blight  and  barrenness.  Natures,  small  in  compass  and 
of  fragile  substance,  might  have  been  distorted  and 
shattered  by  attempts  to  mould  themselves  on  her  grand 
model.  And  in  her  seeming  unchartered  impulses,  — 
whose  latent  law  was  honorable  integrity,  —  eccentric 
spirits  might  have  found  encouragement  for  capricious 
license.  Her  morbid  subjectivity,  too,  might,  by  con- 
tagion, have  affected  others  with  undue  self-conscious- 
ness. And,  finally,  even  intimate  friends  might  have 
been  tempted,  by  her  flattering  love,  to  exaggerate  their 
own  importance,  until  they  recognized  that  her  regard 
for  them  was  but  one  niche  in  a  Pantheon  at  whose 
every  shrine  she  offered  incense.  But  these  ill  effects 
were  superficial  accidents.  The  peculiarity  of  her 
power  was  to  make  all  who  were  in  concert  with  her 
feel  the  miracle  of  existence.  She  lived  herself  with 
such  concentrated  force  in  the  moments,  that  she  was 
always  effulgent  with  thought  and  affection,  —  with 
conscience,  courage,  resource,  decision,  a  penetrating 
and  forecasting  wisdom.  Hence,  to  associates,  her  pres- 
ence seemed  to  touch  even  common  scenes  and  drudging 
cares  with  splendor,  as  when,  through  the  scud  of  a 
rain-storm,  sunbeams  break  from  serene  blue  openings, 
crowning  familiar  things  with  sudden  glory.  By  mani- 
fold sympathies,  yet  central  unity,  she  seemed  in  herself 
to  be  a  goodly  company,  and  her  words  and  deeds 
imparted  the  virtue  of  a  collective  life.  So  tender  was 
her  affection,  that,  like  a  guardian  genius,  she  made  her 
friends'  souls  her  own,  and  identified  herself  with  their 
fortunes;  and  yet,  so  pure  and  high  withal  was  her  jus- 
tice, that,  in  her  recognition  of  their  past  success  and 
present  claims,  there  came  a  summons  for  fresh  endeavor 
VOL.  n.  10* 


114  JAMAICA    PLAIN. 

after  the  perfect.  The  very  thought  of  her  roused 
manliness  to  emulate  the  vigorous  freedom,  with  which 
one  was  assured,  that  wherever  placed  she  was  that 
instant  acting ;  and  the  mere  mention  of  her  name  was 
an  inspiration  of  magnanimity,  and  faithfulness,  and 
truth. 

'  "  Sincere  has  been  their  striving  ;  great  their  love," 

'is  a  sufficient  apology  for  any  life,'  wrote  Margaret; 
and  how  preeminently  were  these  words  descriptive  of 
herself.  Hers  was  indeed 


"  The  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will, 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield." 

This  indomitable  aspiration  found  utterance  in  the 
following  verses,  on 

{SUB   ROSA   CRUX. 

'  In  times  of  old,  as  we  are  told, 

« When  men  more  childlike  at  the  feet 
'  Of  Jesus  sat  than  now, 
'  A  chivalry  was  known,  more  bold 
'  Than  ours,  and  yet  of  stricter  vow, 

'  And  worship  more  complete. 

'  Knights  of  the  Kosy  Cross  !  they  bore 
'  Its  weight  within  the  breast,  but  wore 

'  Without  the  sign,  in  glistening  ruby  bright. 
'  The  gall  and  vinegar  they  drank  alone, 
'  But  to  the  world  at  large  would  only  own 

*  The  wine  of  faith,  sparkling  with  rosy  light. 

'  They  knew  the  secret  of  the  sacred  oil, 
c  Which,  poured  upon  the  prophet's  head, 


SUB    ROSA    CRUX.  115 

•  Could  keep  him  wise  and  pure  for  aye, 
'  Apart  from  all  that  might  distract  or  soil ; 

'  With  this  their  lamps  they  fed, 
'  Which  burn  in  their  sepulchral  shrines, 

'  Unfading  night  and  day. 

'  The  pass-word  now  is  lost 
'  To  that  initiation  full  and  free  ; 

'  Daily  we  pay  the  cost 
'  Of  our  slow  schooling  for  divine  degree. 

'  We  know  no  means  to  feed  an  undying  lamp, 

'  Our  lights  go  out  in  every  wind  and  damp. 

'  We  wear  the  cross  of  Ebony  and  Gold, 
'  Upon  a  dark  back-ground  a  form  of  light, 

'  A  heavenly  hope  within  a  bosom  cold, 
'  A  starry  promise  in  a  frequent  night ; 

f  And  oft  the  dying  lamp  must  trim  again, 

'  For  we  are  conscious,  thoughtful,  striving  men. 

'  Yet  be  we  faithful  to  this  present  trust, 

'  Clasp  to  a  heart  resigned  this  faithful  Must ; 

'  Though  deepest  dark  our  efforts  should  enfold, 
'  Unwearied  mine  to  find  the  vein  of  gold  ; 

'  Forget  not  oft  to  waft  the  prayer  on  high  ;  — 

'  The  rosy  dawn  again  shall  fill  the  sky. 

'  And  by  that  lovely  light  all  truth  revealed,  — 
'  The  cherished  forms,  which  sad  distrust  concealed, 

'  Transfigured,  yet  the  same,  will  round  us  stand, 

'  The  kindred  angels  of  a  faithful  band  ; 
( Ruby  and  ebon  cross  then  cast  aside, 
1  No  lamp  more  needed,  for  the  night  has  died. 

1 '"  Be  to  the  best  thou  knowest  ever  true," 

'  Is  all  the  creed. 
'  Then  be  thy  talisman  of  rosy  hue, 

'  Or  fenced  with  thorns,  that  wearing,  thou  must  bleed, 
1  Or,  gentle  pledge  of  love's  prophetic  view, 

'  The  faithful  steps  it  will  securely  lead. 


116  JAMAICA   PLAIN. 

c  Happy  are  all  who  reach  that  distant  shore, 

'  And  bathe  in  heavenly  day  ; 
'  Happiest  are  those  -who  high  the  banner  bore, 

'  To  marshal  others  on  the  way, 
'  Or  waited  for  them,  fainting  and  way-worn, 

'  By  burthens  overborne.' 


NEW   YORK. 

JOURNALS,  LETTERS,   &0. 


'How  much,  preventing  God,  how  much  I  owe 

To  the  defences  thou  hast  round  me  set ! 
Example,  Custom,  Fear,  Occasion  slow,  — 
These  scorned  bondsmen  were  my  parapet. 
I  dare  not  peep  over  this  parapet, 
To  gauge  with  glance  the  roaring  gulf  below, 
The  depths  of  sin  to  which  I  had  descended, 
Had  not  these  me  against  myself  defended." 


'  Di  te,  finor,  chiesto  non  hai  severa 
Ragione  a  te  ;  di  sua  virtu  non  cade 
Sospetto  in  cor  conscio  a  se  stesso." 

ALFEERI. 

'  He  that  lacks  time  to  mourn,  lacks  time  to  mend  ; 
Eternity  mourns  that.     'T  is  an  ill  cure 
For  life's  worst  ills,  to  have  no  time  to  feel  them. 
Where  sorrow  's  held  intrusive,  and  turned  out, 
There  wisdom  will  not  enter,  nor  true  power, 
Nor  aught  that  dignifies  humanity." 

TAYLOB. 


1  That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold, 

When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 

Bare  ruined  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 
In  me  thou  seest  the  twilight  of  such  day, 

As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west ; 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away,  — 

Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 
In  me  thou  seest  the  glowing  of  such  fire, 

That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie  ; 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 

Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourished  by. ' ' 

SHAKSPEAKE.     [Sonnet  Ixxiii.] 

'  Aber  zufrieden  mit  stillerem  Ruhme, 
Brechen  die  Frauen  des  Augenblick's  Blume, 
Nahren  sie  sorgsam  mit  liebendem  Fleiss, 
Freier  in  ihrem  gebundenen  Wirken, 
Reicher  als  er  in  des  Wissens  Bezirken 
TJnd  in  der  Dichtung  unendlichem  Kreiz." 

SCHILLEK. 

'  Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference  ; 
Yet  in  the  long  years  liker  must  they  grow,  — 
The  man  be  more  of  woman,  she  of  man  ; 
He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral  height, 
Nor  lose  the  wrestling  thews  that  throw  the  world  ; 
She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  child  ward  care  ; 
More  as  the  double-natured  poet  each  ; 
Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man, 
Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words." 

TENNYSON. 


OI. 

NEW    YORK.       . 

LEAVING  HOME. 

INCESSANT  exertion  in  teaching  and  writing,  added  to 
pecuniary  anxieties  and  domestic  cares,  had  so  exhausted 
Margaret's  energy,  in  1844,  that  she  felt  a  craving  for 
fresh  interests,  and  resolved  to  seek  an  entire  change  of 
scene  amid  freer  fields  of  action. 

'  The  tax  on  my  mind  is  such,'  she  writes,  { and  I  am 
'  so  unwell,  that  I  can  scarcely  keep  up  the  spring  of  my 
'  spirits,  and  sometimes  fear  that  I  cannot  go  through 
'  with  the  engagements  of  the  winter.  But  I  have  never 
'  stopped  yet  in  fulfilling  what  I  have  undertaken,  and 
'  hope  I  shall  not  be  compelled  to  now.  How  farcical 
'  seems  the  preparation  needed  to  gain  a  few  moments' 
'life;  yet  just  so  the  plant  works  all  the  year  round  for 
'  a  few  days'  flower.' 

But  in  brighter  mood  she  says,  again :  —  'I  congratu- 
{ late  myself  that  I  persisted,  against  every  persuasion, 
'  in  doing  all  I  could  last  winter;  for  now  I  am  and  shall 
'  be  free  from  debt,  and  I  look  on  the  position  of  debtor 
'  with  a  dread  worthy  of  some  respectable  Dutch  burgo- 
'  master.  My  little  plans  for  others,  too,  have  suc- 
'ceeded;  our  small  household  is  well  arranged,  and  all 
'  goes  smoothly  as  a  wheel  turns  round.  Mother,  more- 
'  over,  has  learned  not  to  be  over-anxious  when  I  suffer, 


120  NEW    YORK. 

{ so  that  I  am  not  obliged  to  suppress  my  feelings  when 
'  it  is  best  to  yield  to  them.  Thus,  having  more  calm- 
'ness,  I  feel  often  that  a  sweet  serenity  is  breathed 
1  through  every  trifling  duty.  I  am  truly  grateful  for 
'  being  enabled  to  fulfil  obligations  which  to  some  might 
'  seem  humble,  but  which  to  m<5  are  sacred.' 

And  in  mid-summer  comes  tms  pleasant  picture :  — 
1  Every  day,  I  rose  and  attended  to  the  many  little  calls 
'  which  are  always  on  me,  and  which  have  been  more 
'  of  late.  Then,  about  eleven,  I  would  sit  down  to  write, 
'at  my  window,  close  to  which  is  the  apple-tree,  lately 
'  full  of  blossoms,  and  now  of  yellow  birds.  Opposite  me 
'was  Del  Sarto's  Madonna;  behind  me  Silenus,  holding 
'in  his  arms  the  infant  Pan.  I  felt  very  content  with 
'my  pen,  my  daily  bouquet,  and  my  yellow  birds. 
'  About  five  I  would  go  out  and  walk  till  dark ;  then 
'would  arrive  my  proofs,  like  crabbed  old  guardians, 
1  coming  to  tea  every  night.  So  passed  each  day.  The 
'  23d  of  May,  my  birth-day,  about  one  o'clock,  I  wrote 
'  the  last  line  of  my  little  book  ;*  then  I  went  to  Mount 
'  Auburn,  and  walked  gently  among  the  graves.' 

As  the  brothers  had  now  left  college,  and  had  entered 
or  were  entering  upon  professional  and  commercial  life, 
while  the  sister  was  married,  and  the  mother  felt  calls 
to  visit  in  turn  her  scattered  children,  it  was  determined 
to  break  up  the  "Home."  'As  a  family,'  Margaret 
writes,  '  we  are  henceforth  to  be  parted.  But  though 
'for  months  I  had  been  preparing  for  this  separation,  the 
'  last  moments  were  very  sad.  Such  tears  are  childish 
'tears,  I  know,  and  belie  a  deeper  wisdom.  It  is  foolish 

*  Summer  on  the  Lakes. 


FAMILY.  121 

'in  me  to  be  so  anxious  about  my  family.  As  I  went 
'along,  it  seemed  as  if  all  I  did  was  for  God's  sake;  but 
if  it  had  been,  could  I  now  thus  fear?  My  relations  to 
'  them  are  altogether  fair,  so  far  as  they  go.  As  to  their 
'  being  no  more  to  me  than  others  of  my  kind,  there  is 
'surely  a  mystic  thrill  betwixt  children  of  one  mother, 
'  which  can  never  cease  to  be  felt  till  the  soul  is  quite  born 
'  anew.  The  earthly  family  is  the  scaffold  whereby  we 
'  build  the  spiritual  one.  The  glimpses  we  here  obtain  of 
'  what  such  relations  should  be  are  to  me  an  earnest  that 
'  the  family  is  of  Divine  Order,  and  not  a  mere  school  of 
'preparation.  And  in  the  state  of  perfect  being  which 
'  we  call  Heaven,  I  am  assured  that  family  ties  will 
'  attain  to  that  glorified  beauty  of  harmonious  adapta- 
'  tion,  which  stellar  groups  in  the  pure  blue  typify.' 

Margaret's  admirable  fidelity,  as  daughter  and  sister, 
—  amidst  her  incessant  literary  pursuits,  and  her  far- 
reaching  friendships,  —  can  be  justly  appreciated  by 
those  only  who  were  in  her  confidence;  but  from  the 
following  slight  sketches  generous  hearts  can  readily 
infer  what  was  the  quality  of  her  home-affections. 

'  Mother  writes  from  Canton  that  my  dear  old  grand- 
'  mother  is  dead.  I  regret  that  you  never  saw  her.  She 
'  was  a  picture  of  primitive  piety,  as  she  sat  holding  the 
'•  "  Saint's  Rest "  in  her  hand,  with  her  bowed,  trembling 
'  figure,  and  her  emphatic  nods,  and  her  sweet  blue  eyes. 
1  They  were  bright  to  the  last,  though  she  was  ninety. 
'It  is  a  great  loss  to  mother,  who  felt  a  large  place 
'  warmed  in  her  heart  by  the  fond  and  grateful  love  of 
this  aged  parent.' 

'  We  cannot  be  sufficiently  grateful  for  our  mother,  — 
VOL.  n.  11 


122  NEW    YORK. 

'so  fair  a  blossom  of  the  white  amaranth;  truly  to  us  a 
'mother  in  this,  that  we  can  venerate  her  piety.  Our 
'relations  to  her  have  known  no  jar.  Nothing  vulgar 
'has  sullied  them;  and  in  this  respect  life  has  been  truly 
'domesticated.  Indeed,  when  I  compare  my  lot  with 
'  others,  it  seems  to  have  had  a  more  than  usual  likeness 
'  to  home ;  for  relations  have  been  as  noble  as  sincerity 
'  could  make  them,  and  there  has  been  a  frequent  breath 
'  of  refined  affection,  with  its  sweet  courtesies.  Mother 
'  thanks  God  in  her  prayers  for  "  all  the  acts  of  mutual 
'  "  love  which  have  been  permitted ;"  and  looking  back, 
'I  see  that  these  have  really  been  many.  I  do  not 
'recognize  this,  as  the  days  pass,  for  to  my  desires  life. 
'  would  be  such  a  flower-chain  of  symbols,  that  what  is 
'  done  seems  very  scanty,  and  the  thread  shows  too  much. 

'She  has  just  brought  me  a  little  bouquet.  Her 
'flowers  have  suffered  greatly  by  my  neglect,  when  I 
'  would  be  engrossed  by  other  things  in  her  absences. 
'  But,  not  to  be  disgusted  or  deterred,  whenever  she  can 
'glean  one  pretty  enough,  she  brings  it  to  me.  Here  is 
'  the  bouquet,  —  a  very  delicate  rose,  with  its  half-blown 
'  bud,  heliotrope,  geranium,  lady-pea,  heart' s-ease  ;  all 
'sweet-scented  flowers!  Moved  by  their  beauty,  I 
'  wrote  a  short  note,  to  which  this  is  the  reply.  Just 
'like  herself!* 

'"I  should  not  love  my  flowers  if  they  did  not  put 
1  "forth  all  the  strength  they  have,  in  gratitude  for  your 
'  "  preserving  care,  last  winter,  and  your  wasted  feelings 

*  The  editor  must  offer  as  excuse  for  printing,  without  permission 
asked,  this  note,  found  carefully  preserved  among  Margaret's  papers, 
that  he  knew  no  other  way  of  so  truly  indicating  the  relation  between, 
mother  and  daughter.  This  lily  is  eloquent  of  the  valley  where  it  grew. 

Vf.  H.  c. 


THE    DAUGHTER.  123 

'  "  over  the  unavoidable  effects  of  the  frost,  that  came  so 
'"unexpectedly  to  nip  their  budding  beauties.  I  ap- 
'  "  preciate  all  you  have  done,  knowing  at  what  cost 
'  "  any  plant  must  be  nourished  by  one  who  sows  in 
'  "fields  more  precious  than  those  opened,  in  early  life, 
1 "  to  my  culture.  One  must  have  grown  up  with  flow- 
'"ers,  and  found  joy  and  sweetness  in  them,  amidst 
'"disagreeable  occupations,  to  take  delight  in  their 
'  "  whole  existence  as  I  do.  They  have  long  had  power 
'  "  to  bring  me  into  harmony  with  the  Creator,  and  to 
'"soothe  almost  any  irritation.  Therefore  I  under- 
<"  stand  your  love  for  these  beautiful  things,  and  it 
"  '  gives  me  real  pleasure  to  procure  them  for  you. 

'  "  You  have  done  everything  that  the  most  affection- 
' "  ate  and  loving  daughter  could,  under  all  circurn- 
'  "  stances.  My  faith  in  your  generous  desire  to  increase 
' "  my  happiness  is  founded  on  the  knowledge  I  have 
'  "  gained  of  your  disposition,  through  your  whole  life. 
' "  I  should  ask  your  sympathy  and  aid,  whenever  it 
'"could  be  available,  knowing  that  you  would  give  it 
'  "  first  to  me.  Waste  no  thought  on  neglected  duties. 
'  "  I  know  of  none.  Let  us  pursue  our  appointed  paths, 
' "  aiding  each  other  in  rough  places ;  and  if  I  live  to 
' "  need  the  being  led  by  the  hand,  I  always  feel  that 
' "  you  will  perform  this  office  wisely  and  tenderly. 
'  "  We  shall  ever  have  perfect  peace  between  us.  Yours, 
'  "  in  all  love."  ' 

Margaret  adds  :  —  'It  has  been,  and  still  is,  hard  for  me 
'to  give  up  the  thought  of  serenity,  and  freedom  from 
'  toil  and  care,  for  mother,  in  the  evening  of  a  day  which 
c  has  been  all  one  work  of  disinterested  love.  But  I  am 
'  now  confident  that  she  will  learn  from  every  trial  its 


124  NEW    YORK. 

'  lesson ;  and  if  I  cannot  be  her  protector,  I  can  be  at 
'  least  her  counsellor  and  soother.' 

From  the  less  private  parts  of  Margaret's  correspon- 
dence with  the  younger  members  of  the  family,  some 
passages  may  be  selected,  as  attesting  her  quick  and 
penetrating  sympathy,  her  strict  truth,  and  influential 
wisdom.  They  may  be  fitly  prefaced  by  these  few  but 
emphatic  words  from  a  letter  of  one  of  her  brothers :  — 

"I  was  much  impressed,  during  my  childhood,  at 
Groton,  with  an  incident  that  first  disclosed  to  me  the 
tenderness  of  Margaret's  character.  I  had  always 
viewed  her  as  a  being  of  different  nature  from  myself, 
to  whose  altitudes  of  intellectual  life  I  had  no  thought 
of  ascending.  She  had  been  absent  during  the  winter, 
and  on  her  return  asked  me  for  some  account  of  my  ex- 
periences. Supposing  that  she  could  not  enter  into  such 
insignificant  details,  I  was  not  frank  or  warm  in  my 
confidence,  though  I  gave  no  reason  for  my  reserve ;  and 
the  matter  had  passed  from  my  mind,  when  our  mother 
told  me  that  Margaret  had  shed  tears,  because  I  seemed 
to  heed  so  little  her  sisterly  sympathy.  '  Tears  from 
one  so  learned,'  thought  I,  'for  the  sake  of  one  so 
inferior!'  Afterwards,  my  heart  opened  to  her,  as  to 
no  earthly  friend. 

"The  characteristic  trait  of  Margaret,  to  which  all 
her  talents  and  acquirements  were  subordinate,  was 
sympathy,  —  universal  sympathy.  She  had  that  large 
intelligence  and  magnanimity  which  enabled  her  to 
comprehend  the  struggles  and  triumphs  of  every  form 
of  character.  Loving  all  about  her,  whether  rich  or 
poor,  rude  or  cultivated,  as  equally  formed  after  a 


THE    SISTER.  125 

Divine  Original,  with  an  equal  birth-right  of  immortal 
growth,  she  regarded  rather  their  aspirations  than  their 
accomplishments.  And  this  was  the  source  of  her  mar- 
vellous influence.  Those  who  had  never  thought  of 
their  own  destiny,  nor  put  faith  in  their  own  faculties, 
found  in  her  society  not  so  much  a  display  of  her  gifts, 
as  surprising  discoveries  of  their  own.  She  revealed  to 
them  the  truth,  that  all  can  be  noble  by  fidelity  to  the 
highest  self.  She  appreciated,  with  delicate  tenderness, 
each  one's  peculiar  trials,  and,  while  never  attempting  to 
make  the  unhappy  feel  that  their  miseries  were  unreal, 
she  pointed  out  the  compensations  of  their  lot,  and 
taught  them  how  to  live  above  misfortune.  She  had 
consolation  and  advice  for  every  one  in  trouble,  and 
wrote  long  letters  to  many  friends,  at  the  expense  not 
only  of  precious  time,  but  of  physical  pain. 

"When  now,  with  the  experience  of  a  man,  I  look 
back  upon  her  wise  guardianship  over  our  childhood, 
her  indefatigable  labors  for  our  education,  her  constant 
supervision  in  our  family  affairs,  her  minute  instructions 
as  to  the  management  of  multifarious  details,  her  pain- 
ful conscientiousness  in  every  duty ;  and  then  reflect  on 
her  native  inaptitude  and  even  disgust  for  practical 
affairs,  on  her  sacrifice,  —  in  the  very  flower  of  her 
genius,  —  of  her  favorite  pursuits,  on  her  incessant 
drudgery  and  waste  of  health,  on  her  patient  bearing 
of  burdens,  and  courageous  conflict  with  difficult  cir- 
cumstances, her  character  stands  before  me  as  heroic." 

It  was  to  this  brother  that  Margaret  wrote  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

c  It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  give  you  this  book ; 
VOL.  n.  11* 


126  NEW    YORK. 

'  both  that  I  have  a  brother  whom  I  think  worthy  to 
'  value  it,  and  that  I  can  give  him  something  worthy  to 

*  be  valued  more  and  more  through  all  his  life.     What- 

•  ever  height  we   may  attain  in   knowledge,  whatever 
'  facility  in  the  expression  of  thoughts,  will  only  enable 
'  us  to  do  more  justice  to  what  is  drawn  from  so  deep  a 
'  source  of  faith  and  intellect,  and  arrayed,  oftentimes, 
'  in  the  fairest  hues  of  nature.     Yet  it  may  not  be  well 
'  for  a  young  mind  to  dwell  too  near  one  tuned  to  so 
'  high  a  pitch  as  this  writer,  lest,  by  trying  to  come  into 
'  concord  with  him,  the  natural  tones  be  overstrained, 
'  and  the  strings  weakened  by  untimely  pressure.     Do 
{  not  attempt,  therefore,  to  read  this  book  through,  but 
'  keep  it  with  you,  and  when  the  spirit  is  fresh  and  ear- 
c  nest  turn  to  it.     It  is  full  of  the  tide-marks  of  great 
'  thoughts,  but  these  can  be  understood  by  one  only  who 
'  has  gained,  by  experience,  some  knowledge  of  these 
'  tides.     The  ancient  sages  knew  how  to  greet  a  brother 
'  who  had  consecrated  his  life  to  thought,  and  was  never 
'  disturbed   from   his  purpose  by  a  lower  aim.     But  it 
'  is  only  to  those  perfected  in  purity  that  Pythagoras  can 
'  show  a  golden  thigh. 

'  One  word  as  to  your  late  readings.  They  came  in  a 
'  timely  way  to  admonish  you,  amidst  mere  disciplines, 
{  as  to  the  future  uses  of  such  disciplines.  But  systems 
4  of  philosophy  are  mere  pictures  to  him,  who  has  not 
'  yet  learned  how  to  systematize.  From  an  inward 
'  opening  of  your  nature  these  knowledges  must  begin 
'  to  be  evolved,  ere  you  can  apprehend  aught  beyond 
:  their  beauty,  as  revealed  in  the  mind  of  another. 
'  Study  in  a  reverent  and  patient  spirit,  blessing  the  day 
1  that  leads  you  the  least  step  onward.  Do  not  ride 
1  hobbies.  Do  not  hasten  to  conclusions.  Be  not  coldly 


127 


'  sceptical  towards  any  thinker,  neither  credulous  of  his 
{  views.  A  man,  whose  mind  is  full  of  error,  may  give 
'  us  the  genial  sense  of  truth,  as  a  tropical  sun,  while  it 
'  rears  crocodiles,  yet  ripens  the  wine  of  the  palm-tree. 

'  To  turn  again  to  my  Ancients  :  while  they  believed 
'  in  self-reliance  with  a  force  little  known  in  our  day, 
'  they  dreaded  no  pains  of  initiation,  but  fitted  them- 
'  selves  for  intelligent  recognition  of  the  truths  on  which 
'  our  being  is  based,  by  slow  gradations  of  travel,  study, 
'•  speech,  silence,  bravery,  and  patience.  That  so  it  may 
'  be  with  you,  dear ,  hopes  your  sister  and  friend.' 

A  few  extracts  from  family  letters  written  at  different 
times,  and  under  various  conditions,  may  be  added. 

'  I  read  with  great  interest  the  papers  you  left  with 
'  me.  The  picture  and  the  emotions  suggested  are 
'  genuine.  The  youthful  figure,  no  doubt,  stands  por- 
'  tress  at  the  gate  of  Infinite  Beauty;  yet  I  would  say  to 
'  one  I  loved  as  I  do  you,  do  not  waste  these  emotions, 
'  nor  the  occasions  which  excite  them.  There  is  danger 
'  of  prodigality,  — of  lavishing  the  best  treasures  of  the 
1  breast  on  objects  that  cannot  be  the  permanent  ones. 
'  It  is  true,  that  whatever  thought  is  awakened  in  the 
'  mind  becomes  truly  ours ;  but  it  is  a  great  happiness  to 
'  owe  these  influences  to  a  cause  so  proportioned  to  our 
'  strength  as  to  grow  with  it.  I  say  this  merely  because 
'  I  fear  that  the  virginity  of  heart  which  I  believe 
'  essential  to  feeling  a  real  love,  in  all  its  force  and 
1  purity,  may  be  endangered  by  too  careless  excursions 
'  into  the  realms  of  fancy.' 

'  It  is  told  us,  we  should  pray,  "  lead  us  not  into  temp- 


128 


NEW    YORK. 


'  "  tation  ;"  and  I  agree.  Yet  I  think  it  cannot  be,  that, 
'  with  a  good  disposition,  and  the  means  you  have  had 
{ to  form  your  mind  and  discern  a  higher  standard,  your 
1  conduct  or  happiness  can  be  so  dependent  on  circum- 
'  stances,  as  you  seem  to  think.  I  never  advised  you: 
'  taking  a  course  which  would  blunt  your  finer  powers. 
1  and  I  do  not  believe  that  winning  the  means  of  pecu- 
1  niary  independence  need  do  so.  I  have  not  found  that 
'  it  does,  in  my  own  case,  placed  at  much  greater  disad- 
'  vantage  than  you  are.  I  have  never  considered,  either, 
'  that  there  was  any  misfortune  in  your  lot.  Health, 
'  good  abilities,  and  a  well-placed  youth,  form  a  union 
'  of  advantages  possessed  by  few,  and  which  leaves  you 
'  little  excuse  for  fault  or  failure.  And  so  to  your  bet- 
'  ter  genius  and  the  instruction  of  the  One  Wise,  I  com- 
'  mend  you.' 

'  It  gave  me  great  pleasure  to  get  your  last  letter,  for 
'  these  little  impromptu  effusions  are  the  genuine  letters. 
'  I  rejoice  that  man  and  nature  seem  harmonious  to 
'you,  and  that  the  heart  beats  in  unison  with  the 
'voices  of  Spring.  May  all  that  is  manly,  sincere, 
'  and  pure,  in  your  wishes,  be  realized  !  Obliged  to 
'  live  myself  without  the  sanctuary  of  the  central  rela- 
'  tions,  yet  feeling  I  must  still  not  despair,  nor  fail  to 
'  profit  by  the  precious  gifts  of  life,  while  "  leaning 
'  "  upon  our  Father's  hand,"  I  still  rejoice,  if  any  one 

I  can,  in  the  true  temper,  and  with  well-founded  hopes, 
'  secure   a   greater  completeness   of    earthly   existence. 
'  This  fortune  is   as   likely  to  be  yours,  as  any  one's 

I 1  know.     It  seems  to  me  dangerous,  however,  to  med- 
1  die  with  the  future.     I  never  lay  my  hand  on  it  to 
'  grasp  it  with  impunity.'  • 


»  RELIGION.  129 

Of  late  I  have  often  thought  of  you  with  strong 
{ yearnings  of  affection  and  desire  to  see  you.  It  would 
'  seem  to  me,  also,  that  I  had  not  devoted  myself  to  yoti 
'  enough,  if  I  were  not  conscious  that  by  any  more  atten- 
'  tion  to  the  absent  than  I  have  paid,  I  should  have 
'  missed  the  needed  instructions  from  the  present.  And 
'  I  feel  that  any  bond  of  true  value  will  endure  necessary 
'  neglect.' 

'  There  is  almost  too  much  of  bitter  mixed  in  the  cup 
'  of  life.  You  say  religion  is  a  mere  sentiment  with  you, 
'  and  that  if  you  are  disappointed  in  your  first,  your 
'  very  first  hopes  and  plans,  you  do  not  know  whether 
' you  shall  be  able  to  act  well.  I  do  not  myself  see 
'  how  a  reflecting  soul  can  endure  the  passage  through 
'  life,  except  by  confidence  in  a  Power  that  must  at  last 
'  order  all  things  right,  and  the  resolution  that  it  shall 
'not  be  our  own  fault  if  we  are  not  happy, — that  we 
'  will  resolutely  deserve  to  be  happy.  There  are  many 
'bright  glimpses  in  life,  many  still  hours ;  much  worthy 

*  toil,  some  deep  and  noble  joys ;   but,  then,  there  are 
'  so  many,  and  such  long,  intervals,  when  we  are  kept 
'from    all   we   want,    and   must   perish   but  for   such 
'  thoughts.' 

'  You  need  not  fear,  dear  ,  my  doing  anything 

'  to  chill  you.  I  am  only  too  glad  of  the  pure  happi- 
'  ness  you  so  sweetly  describe.  I  well  understand  what 
'  you  say  of  its  invigorating  you  for  every  enterprise. 
'I  was  always  sure  it  would  be  so  with  me,  —  that 
'  resigned,  I  could  do  well,  but  happy  I  could  do  excel- 

*  lently.     Happiness  must,  with  the  well-born,  expand 


130  NEW    YORK. 

'  the  generous  affections  towards  all  men,  and  invigorate 
'  one  to  deserve  what  the  gods  have  given.' 

Margaret's  charities  and  courtesies  were  not  limited  to 
her  kindred.  '  She  fell,  at  once,  into  agreeable  relations 
with  her  domestics,  became  their  confidant,  teacher,  arid 
helper,  studied  their  characters,  consulted  their  conven- 
ience, warned  them  of  their  dangers  or  weaknesses,  and 
rejoiced  to  gratify  their  worthy  tastes ;  and,  in  return, 
no  lady  could  receive,  from  servants,  more  punctual  or 
hearty  attendance.  She  knew  how  to  command  and 
how  to  persuade,  and  her  sympathy  was  perfect.  They 
felt  the  power  of  her  mind,  her  hardy  directness,  prompt 
judgment,  decision  and  fertility  of  resource,  and  liked  to 
aid  one  who  knew  so  well  her  own  wants.  '  Around 
1  my  path,'  she  writes,  '  how  much  humble  love  contin- 
'  ually  flows.  These  every-day  and  lowly  friends  never 
'  forget  my  wishes,  never  censure  my  whims,  make  no 
1  Demands  on  me,  and  load  me  with  gifts  and  uncom- 
'  plaining  service.  Though  sometimes  forgetful  of  their 
'  claims,  I  try  to  make  it  up  when  we  do  meet,  and  I 
'  trust  give  little  pain  as  I  pass  along  this  world.' 

Even  in  extreme  cases  of  debasement  she  found 
more  to  admire  than  to  contemn,  and  won  the  confi- 
dence of  the  fallen  by  manifesting  her  real  respect. 
"  There  was  in  my  family,"  writes  a  friend,  "  a  very 
handsome  young  girl,  who  had  been  vicious  in  her 
habits,  and  so  enamored  of  one  of  her  lovers,  that  when 
he  deserted  her,  she  attempted  to  drown  herself.  She 
was  rescued,  and  some  good  people  were  eager  to  reform 
her  life.  While  she  was  engaged  in  housework  for  us, 

Margaret  saw  her,  and  one  day  asked if  she  could 

not  help  her.  replied  :  {  No  !  for  should  I  begin  to 


HOPES   AND   PLANS.  131 

talk  with  her,  I  should  show  my  consciousness  of  her 
history  so  much  as  to  be  painful.'  Margaret  was  very 
indignant  at  this  weakness.  Said  she,  '  This  girl  is 
'  taken  away,  you  know,  from  all  her  objects  of  interest, 
'  and  must  feel  her  life  vacant  and  dreary.  Her  mind 
'  should  be  employed ;  she  should  be  made  to  feel  her 
'  powers.'  It  was  plain  that  if  Margaret  had  been 
near  her,  she  would  have  devoted  herself  at  once  to 
her  education  and  reestablishment." 

About  the  time  of  breaking  up  their  home,  Margaret 
thus  expressed,  to  one  of  her  "brothers,  her  hopes  and 

plans.     '  You  wish,  dear ,  that  I  was  not  obliged  to 

'  toil  and  spin,  but  could  live,  for  a  while,  like  the  lilies. 
'  I  wish  so,  too,  for  life  has  fatigued  me,  my  strength  is 
'  little,  and  the  present  state  of  my  mind  demands  repose 
'  and  refreshment,  that  it  may  ripen  some  fruit  worthy 
{ of  the  long  and  deep  experiences  through  which  I 
'  have  passed.  I  do  not  regret  that  I  have  shared  the 
'  labors  and  cares  of  the  suffering  million,  and  have 
'  acquired  a  feeling  sense  of  the  conditions  under  which 
'  the  Divine  has  appointed  the  development  of  the  human. 
'  Yet,  if  our  family  affairs  could  now  be  so  arranged, 
'  that  I  might  be  tolerably  tranquil  for  the  next  six  or 
'  eight  years,  I  should  go  out  of  life  better  satisfied  with 
'  the  page  I  have  turned  in  it,  than  I  shall  if  I  must 
'  still  toil  on.  A  noble  career  is  yet  before  me,  if  I  can 
(  be  unimpeded  by  cares.  I  have  given  almost  all  my 
'young  energies  to  personal  relations;  but,  at  present,  I 
'feel  inclined  to  impel  the  general  stream  of  thought. 
'  Let  my  nearest  friends  also  wish  that  I  should  now 
'  take  share  in  more  public  life.' 


132  NEW    YORK. 

THE   HIGHLANDS. 

Seeking  thus,  at  once,  expansion  and  rest  in  new  em- 
ployments, Margaret  determined,  in  the  autumn  of  1844, 
to  accept  a  liberal  offer  of  Messrs.  Greeley  and  McEl- 
rath,  to  become  a  constant  contributor  to  the  New  York 
Tribune.  But  before  entering  upon  her  new  duties,  she 
found  relaxation,  for  a  few  weeks,  amid  the  grand  scen- 
ery of  the  Hudson.  In  October,  she  writes  from  Fish- 
kill  Landing :  — '  Can  I  find  words  to  tell  you  how  I 
'  enjoy  being  here,  encircled  by  the  majestic  beauty  of 
{ these  mountains?  I  felt  regret,  indeed,  in  bidding  fare- 
'  well  to  Boston,  so  many  marks  of  affection  were  shown 
'  me  at  the  last,  and  so  many  friendships,  true  if  imper- 
'  feet,  were  left  behind.  But  now  I  am  glad  to  feel 
'  enfranchized  in  the  society  of  Nature.  I  have  a  well- 
'  ordered,  quiet  house  to  dwell  in,  with  nobody's  humors 
'  to  consult  but  my  own.  From  my  windows  I  see  over 
'the  tops  of  variegated  trees  the  river,  with  its  purple 
'  heights  beyond,  and  a  few  moments'  walk  brings  me  to 
'  the  lovely  shore,  where  sails  are  gliding  continually  by, 
'  and  the  huge  steamers  sweep  past  with  echoing  tread, 
'  and  a  train  of  waves,  whose  rush  relieves  the  monotone 
4  of  the  ripples.  In  the  country  behind  us  are  mountain- 
'  paths,  and  lonely  glens,  with  gurgling  streams,  and 
'  many-voiced  water-falls.  And  over  all  are  spread  the 
'  gorgeous  hues  of  autumn.' 

And  again :  — '  "  From  the  brain  of  the  purple  moun- 
'  "  tain  "  flows  forth  cheer  to  my  somewhat  weary  mind. 
•  I  feel  refreshed  amid  these  bolder  shapes  of  nature. 
'  Mere  gentle  and  winning  landscapes  are  not  enough. 
'  How  I  wish  my  birth  had  been  cast  among  the  sources 
'  of  the  streams,  where  the  voice  of  hidden  torrents  is 


MOUNTAIN'S.  133 

'  heard  by  night,  and  the  eagle  soars,  and  the  thim- 
1  der  resounds  in  prolonged  peals,  and  wide  blue  shad- 
'  ows  fall  like  brooding  wings  across  the  valleys  !  Arnid 
'  such  scenes,  I  expand  and  feel  at  home.  All  the  fine 
'  days  I  spend  among  the  mountain  passes,  along  the 
'  mountain  brooks,  or  beside  the  stately  river.  I  enjoy 
'just  the  tranquil  happiness  I  need  in  communion  with 
'  this  fair  grandeur.' 

And,  again  :  • —  '  The  boldness,  sweetness,  and  variety 
'  here,  are  just  what  I  like.  I  could  pass  the  autumn 
1  in  watching  the  exquisite  changes  of  light  and  shade 
'  on  the  heights  across  the  river.  How  idle  to  pretend 
'  that  one  could  live  and  write  as  well  amid  fallow  flat 
1  fields  !  This  majesty,  this  calm  splendor,  could  not  but 
'  exhilarate  the  mind,  and  make  it  nobly  free  and  plas- 
'  tic.' 

These  few  weeks  among  the  Highlands, — spent  mostly 
in  the  open  air,  under  October's  golden  sunshine,  the 
slumberous  softness  of  the  Indian  summer,  or  the  bril- 
liant, breezy  skies  of  November, — were  an  important 
era  for  Margaret.  She  had  — 

•      "  lost  the  dream  of  Doing 
And  the  other  dream  of  Done ; 

The  first  spring  in  the  pursuing, 
The  first  pride  in  the  Begun, 
First  recoil  from  incompleteness  in  the  face  of  what  is  won." 

But  she  was  striving,  also,  to  use  her  own  words,  '  to 
'  be  patient  to  the  very  depths  of  the  heart,  to  expect  no 
'  hasty  realizations,  not  to  make  her  own  plan  her  law 
'  of  life,  but  to  learn  the  law  and  plan  of  God.'  She 

VOL.  II.  12 


134  NEW    YORK. 

adds,  however :  — '  What  heaven  it  must  be  to  have  the 
'•  happy  sense  of  accomplishing  something,  and  to  feel 
'  the  glow  of  action  without  exhausted  weariness!  Surely 
'  the  race  would  have  worn  itself  out  by  corrosion,  if 
1  men  in  all  ages  had  suffered,  as  we  now  do,  from  the 
'  consciousness  of  an  unattained  Ideal.' 

Extracts  from  journals  will  best  reveal  her  state  of 
mind. 

'  I  have  a  dim  consciousness  of  what  the  terrible  expe- 
'  riences  must  be  by  which  the  free  poetic  element  is  har- 
'  monized  with  the  spirit  of  religion.  In  their  essence 
1  and  their  end  these  are  one,  but  rarely  in  actual  exis- 
'  tence.  I  would  keep  what  was  pure  and  noble  in  my 
'  old  native  freedom,  with  that  consciousness  of  falling 
'  below  the  best  convictions  which  now  binds  me  to  the 
'  basest  of  mankind,  and  find  some  new  truth  that  shall 
'  reconcile  and  unite  them.  Once  it  seemed  to  me,  that 
1  my  heart  was  so  capable  of  goodness,  my  mind  of  clear- 
'  ness,  that  all  should  acknowledge  and  claim  me  as  a 
'  friend.  But  now  I  see  that  these  impulses  were  pro- 
'  phetic  of  a  yet  distant  period.  The  "intensity"  of 
'  passion,  which  so  often  unfits  me  for  life,  or,  rather,  for 
'  life  here,  is  to  be  moderated,  not  into  dulness  or  lan- 
'  guor,  but  a  gentler,  steadier  energy.' 

'  The  stateliest,  strongest  vessel  must  sometimes  be 
'  brought  into  port  to  refit.  If  she  will  not  submit  to 
'  be  fastened  to  the  dock,  stripped  of  her  rigging,  and 
'  scrutinized  by  unwashed  artificers,  she  may  spring 
'  a  leak  when  riding  most  proudly  on  the  subject  wave. 
'  Norway  fir  nor  English  oak  can  resist  forever  the 
'  insidious  assaults  of  the  seemingly  conquered  ocean. 


OBSTACLES.  135 

'  The  man  who  clears  the  barnacles  from  the  keel  is 
'  more  essential  than  he  who  hoists  the  pennant  on  the 
'  lofty  mast.' 

'  A  week  of  more  suffering  than  I  have  had  for  a  long 
'  time,  — from  Sunday  to  Sunday,  —  headache  night  and 
'  day  !  And  not  only  there  has  been  no  respite,  but  it 
{  has  been  fixed  in  one  spot  —  between  the  eyebrows !  — 
'  what  does  that  promise  ?  —  till  it  grew  real  torture. 
'  Then  it  has  been  depressing  to  be  able  to  do  so  little, 
'  when  there  was  so  much  I  had  at  heart  to  do.  It 
'  seems  that  the  black  and  white  guardians,  depicted 
'  on  the  Etrurian  monuments,  and  in  many  a  legend,  are 
'  always  fighting  for  my  life.  Whenever  I  have  any 
'  cherished  purpose,  either  outward  obstacles  swarm 
'  around,  which  the  hand  that  would  be  drawing  beau- 
1  tiful  lines  must  be  always  busy  in  brushing  away,  or 
'  comes  this  great  vulture,  and  fastens  his  iron  talons 
'  on  the  brain. 

'  But  at  such  times  the  soul  rises  up,  like  some  fair 
'  child  in  whom  sleep  has  been  mistaken  for  death,  a 
'  living  flower  in  the  dark  tomb.  He  casts  aside  his 
'  shrouds  and  bands,  rosy  and  fresh  from  the  long 
1  trance,  undismayed,  not  seeing  how  to  get  out,  yet 
'  sure  there  is  a  way. 

'  I  think  the  black  jailer  laughs  now,  hoping  that 
1  while  I  want  to  show  that  Woman  can  have  the  free, 
1  full  action  of  intellect,  he  will  prove  in  my  own  self 
'  that  she  has  not  physical  force  to  bear  it.  Indeed,  I 
J  am  too  poor  an  example,  and  do  wish  I  was  bodily 
1  strong  and  fair.  Yet,  I  will  not  be  turned  from  the 
'"  deeper  convictions.' 


136  NEW    YORK. 

'  Driven  from  home  to  home,  as  a  Renouncer,  I  gain 
'  the  poetry  of  each.  Keys  of  gold,  silver,  iron,  lead,  are 
'  in  my  casket.  Though  no  one  loves  me  as  I  would  be 
'  loved,  I  yet  love  many  well  enough  to  see  into  their 

•  eventual  beauty.     Meanwhile,  I  have  no  fetters,  and 
'  when   one   perceives   how  others  are  bound   in   false 
'relations,  this   surely  should  be  regarded  as  a  privi- 
'  lege.     And  so  varied  have  been  my  sympathies,  that 
'  this  isolation  will  not,  I  trust,  make  me  cold,  ignorant. 
'  nor  partial.    My  history  presents  much  superficial,  tem- 
'  porary  tragedy.     The  Woman  in  me  kneels  and  weeps 
1  in  tender  rapture ;   the  Man  in  me  rushes  forth,  but 
'only  to  be  baffled.     Yet  the  time  will  come,  when, 
'  from  the  union  of  this  tragic  king  and  queen,  shall  be 

•  born  a  radiant  sovereign  self.' 

'  I  have  quite  a  desire  to  try  my  powers  in  a  narrative 
1  poem ;  but  my  head  teems  with  plans,  of  which  there 
'  will  be  time  for  very  few  only  to  take  form.  Milton, 
'  it  is  said,  made  for  himself  a  list  of  a  hundred  subjects 
'  for  dramas,  and  the  recorder  of  the  fact  seems  to  think 
1  this  many.  I  think  it  very  few,  so  filled  is  life  with 
'  innumerable  themes.' 

'  Sunday  Evening.  — I  have  employed  some  hours  of 
'  the  day,  with  great  satisfaction,  in  copying  the  Poet's 
•"  Dreams  from  the  Pentameron  of  Landor.  I  do  not 

•  often  have  time  for  such  slow,  pleasing  labor.     I  have 

•  thus  imprinted  the  words  in  my  mind,  so  that  they  will 
often  recur  in  their  original  beauty. 

'I  have  added  three  sonnets  of  Petrarca,  all  written 
'  after  the  death  of  Laura.  They  are  among  his  noblest, 
1  all  pertinent  to  the  subject,  and  giving  three  aspects  of 


READIN'GS.  137 

that  one  mood.     The  last  lines  of  the  last  sonnet  are  a 
'  fit  motto  for  Boccaccio's  dream. 

'In  copying  both  together,  I  find  the  prose  of  the 
'  Englishman  worthy  of  the  verse  of  the  Italian.  It  is 
'  a  happiness  to  see  such  marble  beauty  in  the  halls  of 
'  a  contemporary. 

'  How  fine  it  is  to  see  the  terms  "  onesto,"  "  gentile," 
1  used  in  their  original  sense  and  force. 

'  Soft,  solemn  day ! 
'  Where  earth  and  heaven  together  seem  to  meet, 

'  I  have  been  blest  to  greet 
'  From  human  thought  a  kindred  sway; 

'  In  thought  these  stood 

'  So  near  the  simple  Good, 
'  That  what  we  nobleness  and  honor  call, 
*  They  -viewed  as  honesty,  the  common  dower  of  all.' 

Margaret  was  reading,  in  these  weeks,  the  Four  Books 
of  Confucius,  the  Desatir,  some  of  Taylor's  translations 
from  the  Greek,  a  work  on  Scandinavian  Mythology, 
Moshler's  Symbolism,  Fourier's  Noveau  Monde  Indus- 
triel,  and  Landor's  Pentameron,  —  but  she  says,  in  her 
journal,  '  No  book  is  good  enough  to  read  in  the  open 
'  air,  among  these  mountains ;  even  the  best  seem  partial, 
'civic,  limiting,  instead  of  being,  as  man's  voice  should 
'  be,  a  tone  higher  than  nature's.' 

And  again :  — '  This  morning  came  's  letter, 

'  announcing  Sterling's  death :  — 

'  "  Weep  for  Dedalus  all  that  is  fairest." 

{  The  news  was  very  sad  :  Sterling  did  so  earnestly  wish 
c  to  do  a  man's  work,  and  had  done  so  small  a  portion 
'  of  his  own.  This  made  me  feel  how  fast  my  years  are 
'  flitting  by,  and  nothing  done.  Yet  these  few  beautiful 

VOL.  II.  12* 


138  NEW    YORK. 

'  days  of  leisure  I  cannot  resolve  to  give  at  all  to  wont. 
:  I  want  absolute  rest,  to  let  the  mind  lie  fallow,  to  keep 
1  my  whole  nature  open  to  the  influx  of  truth.' 

At  this  very  time,  however,  she  was  longing  to  write 
with  full  freedom  and  power.  '  Formerly,'  she  says, 
'  the  pen  did  not  seem  to  me  an  instrument  capable  of 
'  expressing  the  spirit  of  a  life  like  mine.  An  enchanter's 
'  mirror,  on  which,  with  a  word,  could  be  made  to  rise 
'all  apparitions  of  the  universe,  grouped  in  new  rela- 
'  tions ;  a  magic  ring,  that  could  transport  the  wearer, 
'himself  invisible,  into  each  region  of  grandeur  or 
'beauty;  a  divining-rod,  to  tell  where  lie.  the  secret 
'  fountains  of  refreshment ;  a  wand,  to  invoke  elemental 
'  spirits ;  —  only  such  as  these  seemed  fit  to  embody  one's 
'  thought  with  sufficient  swiftness  and  force.  In  earlier 
'  years  I  aspired  to  wield  the  sceptre  or  the  lyre ;  for  I 
'loved  with  wise  design  and  irresistible  command  to 
'  mould  many  to  one  purpose,  and  it  seemed  all  that  man 
'could  desire  to  breathe  in  music  and  speak  in  words, 
'  the  harmonies  of  the  universe.  But  the  golden  lyre 
'  was  not  given  to  my  hand,  and  I  am  but  the  prophecy 
'of  a  poet.  Let  me  use,  then,  the  slow  pen.  I  will 
'make  no  formal  vow  to  the  long-scorned  Muse;  I 
'  assume  no  garland ;  I  dare  not  even  dedicate  myself  as 
'  a  novice ;  I  can  promise  neither  patience  nor  energy ;  — 
'  but  I  will  court  excellence,  so  far  as  an  humble  heart 
'  and  open  eye  can  merit  it,  and,  if  I  may  gradually  grow 
'  to  some  degree  of  worthiness  in  this  mode  of  expression, 
I  shall  be  grateful.' 

WOMAN. 

It  was  on  "Woman  in  the  Nineteenth  Century"  that 


WOMAN.  139 

Margaret  was  now  testing  her  power  as  a  writer.  '  I 
'have  finished  the  pamphlet,'  she  writes,  'though  the 
'  last  day  it  kept  spinning  out  beneath  my  hand.  After 
'  taking  a  long  walk,  early  one  most  exhilarating  morn- 
'  ing,  I  sat  down  to  work,  and  did  not  give  it  the  last 
'stroke  till  near  nine  in  the  evening.  Then  I  felt  a 
'  delightful  glow,  as  if  I  had  put  a  good  deal  of  my  true 
'  life  in  it,  and  as  if,  should  I  go  away  now,  the  measure 
'of  my  foot-print  would  be  left  on  the  earth.' 

A  few  extracts  from  her  manuscripts  upon  this  subject 
may  be  of  interest,  as  indicating  the  spirit  and  aim  with 
which  she  wrote :  — 

'  To  those  of  us  who  hate  emphasis  and  exaggeration, 
'  who  believe  that  whatever  is  good  of  its  kind  is  good, 
'  who  shrink  from  love  of  excitement  and  love  of  sway, 
;who,  while  ready  for  duties  of  many  kinds,  dislike 
'pledges  and  bonds  to  any,  —  this  talk  about  "Woman's 
'"Sphere,"  "Woman's  Mission,"  and  all  such  phrases 
'as  mark  the  present  consciousness  of  an  impending 
'  transition  from  old  conventions  to  greater  freedom,  are 
'  most  repulsive.  And  it  demands  some  valor  to  lift  one's 
'  head  amidst  the  shower  of  public  squibs,  private  sneers, 
'  anger,  scorn,  derision,  called  out  by  the  demand  that 
'  women  should  be  put  on  a  par  with  their  brethren, 
'  legally  and  politically ;  that  they  should  hold  property 
'not  by  permission  but  by  right,  and  that  they  should 
'take  an  active  part  in  all  great  movements.  But 
'  though,  with  Mignon,  we  are  prompted  to  characterize 
'  heaven  as  the  place  where 

'  "  Sie  fragen  nicht  nach  Mann  me  Weib," 


140  NEW    YORK. 

'yet  it  is  plain  that  we  must  face  this  agitation;  and 
'  beyond  the  dull  clouds  overhead  hangs  in  the  horizon 
'Venus,  as  morning-star,  no  less  fair,  though  of  more 
'melting  beauty,  than  the  glorious  Jupiter,  who  shares 
{ with  her  the  watch.' 

'  The  full,  free  expression  of  feeling  must  be  rare,  for 
'  this  book  of  Bettina  Brentano's  to  produce  such  an 
'  effect.  Men  who  have  lived  in  the  society  of  women 
'  all  their  days,  seem  never  before  to  have  dreamed  of 
1  their  nature ;  they  are  filled  with  wonderment  and 
'  delight  at  these  revelations,  and  because  they  see  the 
'  woman,  fancy  her  a  genius.  But  in  truth  her  inspiration 
'  is  nowise  extraordinary ;  and  I  have  letters  from  various 
'  friends,  lying  unnoticed  in  my  portfolio,  which  are  quite 
'  as  beautiful.  For  one,  I  think  that  these  veins  of  gold 
'  should  pass  in  secret  through  the  earth,  inaccessible  to 
'  all  who  will  not  take  the  trouble  to  mine  for  them.  I 
'  do  not  like  Bettina  for  publishing  her  heart,  and  am 
1  ready  to  repeat  to  her  Serlo's  reproof  to  Aurelia.' 

'  How  terrible  must  be  the  tragedy  of  a  woman  who 
'  awakes  to  find  that  she  has  given  herself  wholly  to  a 
'  person  for  whom  she  is  not  eternally  fitted !  I  cannot 
'  look  on  marriage  as  on  the  other  experiments  of  life : 
'it  is  the  one  grand  type  that  should  be  kept  forever 
'sacred.  There  are  two  kinds  of  love  experienced  by 
'high  and  rich  souls.  The  first  seeks,  according  to 
'Plato's  myth,  another  half,  as  being  not  entire  in  itself, 
'but  needing  a  kindred  nature  to  unlock  its  secret  cham- 
'  bers  of  emotion,  and  to  act  with  quickening  influence 
'  on  all  its  powers,  by  full  harmony  of  senses,  affections, 
'intellect,  will;  the  second  is  purely  ideal,  beholding  in 


TEXAS    ANNEXATION.  141 

'its  object  divine  perfection,  and  delighting  in  it  only  in 
'  degree  as  it  symbolizes  the  essential  good.  But  why 
'is  not  this  love  steadily  directed  to  the  Central  Spirit, 
'  since  in  no  form,  however  suggestive  in  beauty,  can 
'God  be  fully  revealed?  Love's  delusion  is  owing  to 
'one  of  man's  most  godlike  qualities,  —  the  earnestness 
'  with  which  he  would  concentrate  his  whole  being,  and 
'  thus  experience  the  Now  of  the  I  Am.  Yet  the  noblest 
'  are  not  long  deluded ;  they  love  really  the  Infinite  Beauty, 
'though  they  may  still  keep  before  them  a  human  form, 
'  as  the  Isis,  who  promises  hereafter  a  seat  at  the  golden 
'  tables.  How  high  is  Michel  Angelo's  love,  for  instance, 
•  compared  with  Petrarch's  !  Petrarch  longs,  languishes ; 
'and  it  is  only  after  the  death  of  Laura  that  his  muse 
'  puts  on  celestial  plumage.  But  Michel  always  soars ; 
'  his  love  is  a  stairway  to  the  heavens.' 

'  Might  not  we  women  do  something  in  regard  to  this 
'  Texas  Annexation  project  ?  I  have  never  felt  that  I 
'had  any  call  to  take  part  in  public  affairs  before;  but 
'  this  is  a  great  moral  question,  and  we  have  an  obvious 
'  right  to  express  our  convictions.  I  should  like  to  con- 
'vene  meetings  of  the  women  everywhere,  and  take  our 
'  stand.' 

'  Had  Christendom  but  been  true  to  its  standard,  while 
'  accommodating  its  modes  of  operation  to  the  calls  of 
'successive  times,  woman  would  now  have  not  only 
'  equal  power  with  man,  —  for  of  that  omnipotent  nature 
'  will  never  permit  her  to  be  defrauded,  —  but  a  chartered 
'power,  too  fully  recognized  to  be  abused.  Indeed,  all 
'that  is  wanting  is,  that  man  should  prove  his  own 
'  freedom  by  making  her  free.  Let  him  abandon  con- 


142  NEW   YORK. 

'ventional  restriction,  as  a  vestige  of  that  Oriental  bar- 
'barity  which  confined  woman  to  a  seraglio.  Let  him 
' trust  her  entirely,  and  give  her  every  privilege  already 
'acquired  for  himself,  —  elective  franchise,  tenure  of 
'property,  liberty  to  speak  in  public  assemblies,  &c. 

'  Nature  has  pointed  out  her  ordinary  sphere  by  the 
'circumstances  of  her  physical  existence.  She  cannot 
'wander  far.  If  here  and  there  the  gods  send  their 
'missives  through  women,  as  through  men,  let  them 
'  speak  without  remonstrance.  In  no  age  have  men 
'been  able  wholly  to  hinder  them.  A  Deborah  must 
'  always  be  a  spiritual  mother  in  Israel ;  a  Corinna  may 
'  be  excluded  from  the  Olympic  games,  yet  all  men  will 
'  hear  her  song,  and  a  Pindar  sit  at  her  feet.  It  is  man's 
'  fault  that  there  ever  were  Aspasias  and  Ninons.  These 
'  exquisite  forms  were  intended  for  the  shrines  of  virtue. 

'Neither  need  men  fear  to  lose  their  domestic  deities. 
'  Woman  is  born  for  love,  and  it  is  impossible  to  turn  her 
'from  seeking  it.  Men  should  deserve  her  love  as  an 
'  inheritance,  rather  than  seize  and  guard  it  like  a  prey. 
'  Were  they  noble,  they  would  strive  rather  not  to  be 
'loved  too  much,  and  to  turn  her  from  idolatry  to  the 
'true,  the  only  Love.  Then,  children  of  one  Father, 
'  they  could  not  err,  nor  misconceive  one  another. 

'  Society  is  now  so  complex,  that  it  is  no  longer  pos- 
'  sible  to  educate  woman  merely  as  woman ;  the  tasks 
'  which  come  to  her  hand  are  so  various,  and  so  large  a 
'proportion  of  women  are  thrown  entirely  upon  their 
'  own  resources.  I  admit  that  this  is  not  their  state  of 
'perfect  development;  but  it  seems  as  if  heaven,  having 
'so  long  issued  its  edict  in  poetry  and  religion,  without 
'securing  intelligent  obedience;  now  commanded  the 


TRUE    RELATIONS.  143 

£  world  in  prose,  to  take  a  high  and  rational  view.     The 
'  lesson  reads  to  me  thus :  — 

'Sex,  like  rank,  wealth,  beauty,  or  talent,  is  but  an 
*  accident  of  birth.  As  you  would  not  educate  a  soul  to 
'  be  an  aristocrat,  so  do  not  to  be  a  woman.  A  general 
'  regard  to  her  usual  sphere  is  dictated  in  the  economy  of 
'nature.  You  need  never  enforce  these  provisions  rigor- 
'  ously.  Achilles  had  long  plied  the  distaff  as  a  princess, 
'yet,  at  first  sight  of  a  sword,  he  seized  it.  So  with 
'  woman,  one  hour  of  love  would  teach  her  more  of  her 
'proper  relations,  than  all  your  formulas  and  conventions. 
'  Express  your  views,  men,  of  what  you  seek  in  woman : 
'  thus  best  do  you  give  them  laws.  Learn,  women,  what 
'  you  should  demand  of  men :  thus  only  can  they  become 
'  themselves.  Turn  both  from  the  contemplation  of  what 
'  is  merely  phenomenal  in  your  existence,  to  your  per- 
'  manent  life  as  souls.  Man,  do  not  prescribe  how  the 
'  Divine  shall  display  itself  in  woman.  Woman,  do  not 
'  expect  to  see  all  of  God  in  man.  Fellow-pilgrims  and 
'helpmeets  are  ye,  Apollo  and  Diana,  twins  of  one 
'  heavenly  birth,  both  beneficent,  and  both  armed.  Man, 
'  fear  not  to  yield  to  woman's  hand  both  the  quiver  and 
'  the  lyre ;  for  if  her  urn  be  filled  with  light,  she  will  use 
'  both  to  the  glory  of  God.  There  is  but  one  doctrine  for 
'  ye  both,  and  that  is  the  doctrine  of  the  SOUL.' 

Thus,  in  communion  with  the  serene  loveliness  of 
mcther-earth,  and  inspired  with  memories  of  Isis  and 
Ceres,  of  Minerva  and  Freia,  and  all  the  commanding 
forms  beneath  which  earlier  ages  symbolized  their  sense 
of  the  Divine  Spirit  in  woman,  Margaret  cherished 
visions  of  the  future,  and  responded  with  full  heart  to 
the  poet's  prophecy :  — 


144  NF'W    YORK. 

"  Then  comes  the  statelier  Eden  back  to  men; 
Then  reign  the  -world's  great  bridals,  chaste  and  calm; 
Then  springs  the  crowning  race  of  human-kind." 

It  was  but  after  the  usual  order  of  our  discordant  life. 
—  where  Purgatory  lies  so  nigh  to  Paradise,  —  that  she 
should  thence  be  summoned  to  pass  a  Sunday  with  the 
prisoners  at  Sing-Sing.  This  was  the  period  when,  in 
fulfilment  of  the  sagacious  and  humane  counsels  of 
Judge  Edmonds,  a  system  of  kind  discipline,  combined 
with  education,  was  in  practice  at  that  penitentiary,  and 
when  the  female  department  was  under  the  matronly 
charge  of  Mrs.  E.  W.  Farnum,  aided  by  Mrs.  Johnson, 
Miss  Bruce,  and  other  ladies,  who  all  united  sisterly 
sympathy  with  energetic  firmness.  Margaret  thus  de- 
scribes her  impressions :  — 

1  We  arrived  on  Saturday  evening,  in  such  resplendent 
'  moonlight,  that  we  might  have  mistaken  the  prison  for 
'  a  palace,  had  we  not  known  but  too  well  what  those 
1  massive  walls  contained. 

'  Sunday  morning  we  attended  service  in  the  chapel 
'of  the  male  convicts.  They  listened  with  earnest 
'  attention,  and  many  were  moved  to  tears.  I  never  felt 
'  such  sympathy  with  an  audience  as  when,  at  the  words 
"Men  and  brethren,"  that  sea  of  faces,  marked  with 
'the  scars  of  every  ill,  were  upturned,  and  the  shell 'of 
'  brutality  burst  apart  at  the  touch  of  love.  I  knew  that 
'  at  least  heavenly  truth  would  not  be  kept  out  by  self- 
'  complacence  and  dependence  on  good  appearances. 

'  After  twelve  at  noon,  all  are  confined  in  their  cells, 
'that  the  keepers  may  have  rest  from  their  weekly 
'  fatigue.  But  I  was  allowed  to  have  some  of  the  women 
'out  to  talk  with,  and  the  interview  was  very  pleasant. 


SING-SING.  145 

'  They  showed  the  natural  aptitude  of  the  sex  for  refine- 
'  ment.  These  women  were  among  the  so-called  worst, 
'  and  all  from  the  lowest  haunts  of  vice.  Yet  nothing 
'could  have  been  more  decorous  than  their  conduct, 
'  while  it  was  also  frank ;  and  they  showed  a  sensibility 
'  and  sense  of  propriety,  which  would  not  have  disgraced 
£  any  society.  All  passed,  indeed,  much  as  in  one  of  my 
'  Boston  classes.  I  told  them  I  was  writing  about  Wo- 
'  man ;  and,  as  my  path  had  been  a  favored  one,  I  wanted 
'  to  gain  information  from  those  who  had  been  tempted 
'  and  afflicted.  They  seemed  to  reply  in  the  same  spirit 
'  in  which  I  asked.  Several,  however,  expressed  a  wish 
'  to  see  me  alone,  as  they  could  then  say  all,  which  they 
'  could  not  bear  to  before  one  another.  I  shall  go  there 
1  again,  and  take  time  for  this.  It  is  very  gratifying  to 
1  see  the  influence  these  few  months  of  gentle  and  intel- 
'  ligent  treatment  have  had  upon  these  women ;  indeed, 
'  it  is  wonderful.' 

So  much  were  her  sympathies  awakened  by  this  visit, 
that  she  rejoiced  in  the  opportunity,  soon  after  offered, 
of  passing  Christmas  with  these  outcasts,  and  gladly 
consented  to  address  the  women  in  their  chapel.  "  There 
was,"  says  one  present,  "a  most  touching  tenderness, 
blended  with  dignity,  in  her  air  and  tone,  as,  seated  in 
the  desk,  she  looked  round  upon  her  fallen  sisters,  and 
begun :  '  To  me  the  pleasant  office  has  been  given,  of 
'  wishing  you  a  happy  Christmas.'  A  simultaneous 
movement  of  obeisance  rippled  over  the  audience,  with 
a  murmured  'Thank  you;'  and  a  smile  was  spread 
upon  those  sad  countenances,  like  sunrise  sparkling  on 
a  pool/''  A  few  words  from  this  discourse,  —  which  was 
extemporaneous,  but  of  which  she  afterward  made  an 

VOL.  II.  13 


146  NEW    YORK. 

imperfect  record,  —  will  show  the  temper  in  which  she 
spoke : — 

'I  have  passed  other  Christmas  days  happily,  but 
'never  felt  as  now,  how 'fitting  it  is  that  this  festival 
'should 'come  among  the  snows  and  chills  of  winter; 
1  for,  to  many  of  you,  I  trust,  it  is  the  birth-day  of  a 
'higher  life,  when  the  sun  of  good- will  is  beginning  to 
'  return,  and  the  evergreen  of  hope  gives  promise  of  the 
'  eternal  year.  *  *  * 

'Some  months  ago,  we  were  told  of  the  riot,  the 
'license,  and  defying  spirit  which  made  \ this  place  so 
'  wretched,  and  the  conduct  of  some  now  here  was  such 
'that  the  world  said:  —  "Women  once  lost  are  far 
'  "worse  than  abandoned  men,  and  cannot  be  restored." 
'  But,  no  !  It  is  not  so !  I  know  my  sex  better.  It  is 
'because  women  have  so  much  feeling,  and  such  a 
'  rooted  respect  for  purity,  that  they  seem  so  shameless 
'and  insolent,  when  they  feel  that  they  have  erred  and 
'that  others  think  ill  of  them.  They  know  that  even 
'  the  worst  of  men  would  like  to  see  women  pure  as 
'  angels,  and  when  they  meet  man's  look  of  scorn,  the 
'  desperate  passion  that  rises  is  a  perverted  pride,  which 
'  might  have  been  their  guardian  angel.  Might  have 
'been!  Rather  let  me  say,  which  may  be;  for  the 
'  great  improvement  so  rapidly  wrought  here  gives  us 
'  all  warm  hopes.  *  *  * 

'  Be  not  in  haste  to  leave  these  walls.  Yesterday, 
'one  of  you,  who  was  praised,  replied,  that  "if  she  did 
'  "  well  she  hoped  that  efforts  would  be  made  to  have  her 
'  "  pardoned.''  I  can  feel  the  monotony  and  dreariness 
'  of  your  confinement,  but  I  entreat  you  to  believe  that 
'  for  many  of  you  it  would  be  the  greatest  misfortune  to 


CHRISTMAS.  147 

{ be  taken  from  here  too  soon.  \  You  know,  better  than  I 
'  can,  the  temptations  that  await  you  in  the  world ;  and 
'  you  must  now  perceive  how  dark  is  the  gulf  of  sin 
'  and  sorrow,  towards  which  they  would  hurry  you. 
'  Here,  you  have  friends  indeed ;  friends  to  your  better 
'selves;  able  and  ready  to  help  you.  Born  of  unfortu- 
'  nate  marriages,  inheriting  dangerous  inclinations,  neg- 
'  lected  in  childhood,  with  bad  habits  and  bad  associates, 
'  as  certainly  must  be  the  case  with  some  of  you,  how 
'terrible  will  be  the  struggle  when  you  leave  this 
'  shelter !  O,  be  sure  that  you  are  fitted  to  triumph 
'over  evil,  before  you  again  expose  yourselves  to  it! 
'  And,  instead  of  wasting  your  time  and  strength  in  vain 
'  wishes,  use  this  opportunity  to  prepare  yourselves  for 
'  a  better  course  of  life,  when  you  are  set  free.  *  *  * 

'  When  I  was  here  before,  I  was  grieved  by  hearing 
'  several  of  you  say,  "I  will  tell  you  what  you  wish  to 
'  "  know,  if  I  can  be  alone  with  you ;  but  not  before 
'  "  the  other  prisoners  ;  for,  if  they  know  my  past  faults, 
'  "  they  will  taunt  me  with  them."  O,  never  do  that ! 
'  To  taunt  the  fallen  is  the  part  of  a  fiend.  And  you  ! 
'  you  were  meant  by  Heaven  to  become  angels  of  sym- 
'pathy  and  love.  It  says  in  the  Scripture:  "Their 
'  "  angels  do  always  behold  in  heaven  the  face  of  my 
'  "  Father."  So  was  it  with  you  in  your  childhood ; 
'  so  is  it  now.  Your  angels  stand  forever  there  to  inter- 
'  cede  for  you  ;  and  to  you  they  call  to  be  gentle  and 
'good.  Nothing  can  so  grieve  and  discourage  those 
'  heavenly  friends  as  when  you  mock  the  suffering.  It 
'  was  one  of  the  highest  praises  of  Jesus,  "  The  bruised 
'  reed  he  will  not  break."  Remember  that,  and  never 
'insult,  where  you  cannot  aid,  a  companion.  *  *  * 

'  Let  me  warn  you  earnestly  against  acting  insincerely, 


148  NEW    YORK. 

1  and  appearing  to  wish  to  do  right  for  the  sake  of  appro- 
'  bation.  I  know  you  must  prize  the  good  opinion  of 
'  your  friendly  protectors  ;  but  do  not  bny  it  at  the  cost 
'  of  truth.  Try  to  be,  not  to  seem.  Only  so  far  as  you 
'  earnestly  wish  to  do  right  for  the  sake  of  right,  can 
'  you  gain  a  principle  that  will  sustain  you  hereafter ; 
'  and  that  is  what  we  wish,  not  fair  appearances  now. 
'  A  career  can  never  be  happy  that  begins  with  false- 
c  hood.  Be  inwardly,  outwardly  true ;  then  you  will 
'  never  be  weakened  or  hardened  by  the  consciousness 
'of  playing  a  part;  and  if,  hereafter,  the  unfeeling  or 
'thoughtless  give  you  pain,  or  take  the  dreadful  risk 
'  of  pushing  back  a  soul  emerging  from  darkness,  you 
'  will  feel  the  strong  support  of  a  good  conscience.  *  *  * 
'  And  never  be  discouraged  ;  never  despond  ;  never 
'  say,  "  It  is  too  late."  Fear  not,  even  if  you  relapse 
'  again  and  again.  Many  of  you  have  much  to  contend 
'  with.  Some  may  be  so  faulty,  by  temperament  or 
£  habit,  that  they  can  never  on  this  earth  lead  a  wholly 
'  fair  and  harmonious  life,  however  much  they  strive. 
'  Yet  do  what  you  can.  If  in  one  act,  —  for  one  day,  — 
'  you  can  do  right,  let  that  live  like  a  point  of  light  in 
c  your  memory ;  for  if  you  have  done  well  once  you  can 
'  again.  If  you  fall,  do  not  lie  grovelling ;  but  rise  upon 
'  your  feet  once  more,  and  struggle  bravely  on.  And 
'if  aroused  conscience  makes  you  suffer  keenly,  have 
'patience  to  bear  it.  God  will  not  let  you  suffer  more 
'  than  you  need  to  fit  you  for  his  grace.  At  the  very 
'  moment  of  your  utmost  pain,  persist  to  seek  his  aid, 
'  and  it  will  be  given  abundantly.  Cultivate  this  spirit 
'of  prayer.  I  do  not  mean  agitation  and  excitement, 
'  but  a  deep  desire  for  truth,  purity,  and  goodness,  and 


BLACKWELL'S  ISLAND.  149 

'  you  will  daily  learn  how  near  He  is  to  every  one  of 
(us.' 

These  fragments,  from  a  hasty  report  transcribed 
when  the  impressions  of  the  hour  had  grown  faint,  give 
but  a  shadow  of  the  broad  good  sense,  hearty  fellow- 
feeling,  and  pathetic  hopefulness,  which  made  so  effec- 
tive her  truly  womanly  appeal. 

This  intercourse  with  the  most  unfortunate  of  her 
sex,  and  a  desire  to  learn  more  of  the  causes  of  their 
degradation,  and  of  the  means  of  restoring  them,  led 
Margaret,  immediately  on  reaching  New  York,  to  visit 
the  various  benevolent  institutions,  and  especially  the 
prisons  on  Blackwell's  Island.  And  it  was  while  walk- 
ing among  the  beds  of  the  lazar-house,  —  mis-called 
"hospital,"  —  which  then,  to  the  disgrace  of  the  city, 
was  the  cess-pool  of  its  social  filth,  that  an  incident 
occurred,  as  touching  as  it  was  surprising  to  herself.  A 
woman  was  pointed  out  who  bore  a  very  bad  character, 
as  hardened,  sulky,  and  impenetrable.  She  was  in  bad 
health  and  rapidly  failing.  Margaret  requested  to  be 
left  alone  with  her ;  and  to  her  question,  '  Are  you 
'  willing  to  die  1 '  the  woman  answered,  "  Yes ;"  adding, 
with  her  usual  bitterness,  "not  on  religious  grounds, 
though."  'That  is  well,  —  to  understand  yourself,'  was 
Margaret's  rejoinder.  She  then  began  to  talk  with  her 
about  her  health,  and  her  few  comforts,  until  the  con- 
versation deepened  in  interest.  At  length,  as  Margaret 
rose  to  go,  she  said :  '  Is  there  not  anything  I  can  do 
' for  you  1 '  The  woman  replied  :  "I  should  be  glad  if 
you  will  pray  with  me." 

The  condition  of  these  wretched  beings  was  brought 
the  more  home  to  her  heart,  as  the  buildings  were  directly 

VOL.  IT.  13* 


150  NEW   YORK. 

in  sight  from  Mr.  Greeley's  house,  at  Turtle  Bay,  where 
Margaret,  on  her  arrival,  went  to  reside.  'Seven 
'  hundred  females,'  she  writes,  '  are  now  confined  in 
1  the  Penitentiary  opposite  this  point.  We  can  pass 
*  over  in  a  boat  in  a  few  minutes.  I  mean  to  visit,  talk, 
'and  read  with  them.  I  have  always  felt  great  interest 
'  in  those  women  who  are  trampled  in  the  mud  to 
'  gratify  the  brute  appetites  of  men,  and  wished  that  I 
'  might  be  brought  naturally  into  contact  with  them. 
'Now  I  am.' 

THE    TRIBUNE   AND    HORACE    GREELEY. 

It  was  early  in  December  of  1844  that  Margaret  took 
up  her  abode  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Greeley,  in  a  spacious 
old  wooden  mansion,  somewhat  ruinous,  but  delightfully 
situated  on  the  East  River,  which  she  thus  describes :  — 

1  This  place  is,  to  me,  entirely  charming;  it  is  so  com- 
'  pletely  in  the  country,  and  all  around  is  so  bold  and 
1  free.  It  is  two  miles  or  more  from  the  thickly  settled 
'  parts  of  New  York,  but  omnibuses  and  cars  give  me 
1  constant  access  to  the  city,  and,  while  I  can  readily  see 
'  what  and  whom  I  will,  I  can  command  time  and  retire- 
'ment.  Stopping  on  the  Haarlem  road,  you  enter  a 
'  lane  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  long,  and  going  by  a 
'small  brook  and  pond  that  locks  in  the  place,  and 
'  ascending  a  slightly  rising  ground,  get  sight  of  the 
'  house,  which,  old-fashioned  and  of  mellow  tint,  fronts 
on  a  flower-garden  filled  with  shrubs,  large  vines,  and 
trim  box  borders.  On  both  sides  of  the  house  are 
'  beautiful  trees,  standing  fair,  full-grown,  and  clear. 
'  Passing  through  a  wide  hall,  you  come  out  upon  a 


THE    TRIBUNE.  151 

'piazza,  stretching  the  whole  length  of  the  house, 
'  where  one  can  walk  in  all  weathers ;  and  thence  by  a 
'  step  or  two,  on  a  lawn,  with  picturesque  masses  of 
'rocks,  shrubs  and  trees,  overlooking  the  East  River. 
'  Gravel  paths  lead,  by  several  turns,  down  the  steep 
'  bank  to  the  water's  edge,  where  round  the  rocky  point 
'  a  small  bay  curves,  in  which  boats  are  lying.  And, 
'owing  to  the  currents,  and  the  set  of  the  tide,  the 
'  sails  glide  sidelong,  seeming  to  greet  the  house  as  they 
'sweep  by.  The  beauty  here,  seen  by  moonlight,  is 
'truly  transporting.  I  enjoy  it  greatly,  and  the  genius 
'  loci  receives  me  as  to  a  home.' 

Here  Margaret  remained  for  a  year  and  more,  writing 
regularly  for  the  Tribune.  And  how  high  an  estimate 
this  prolonged  and  near  acquaintance  led  her  to  form 
for  its  Editor,  will  appear  from  a  few  passages  in  her 
letters :  — 

'  Mr.  Greeley  is  a  man  of  genuine  excellence,  honor- 
cable,  benevolent,  and  of  an  uncorrupted  disposition. 
'  He  is  sagacious,  and,  in  his  way,  of  even  great  abil- 
'  ities.  In  modes  of  life  and  manner  he  is  a  man  of  the 
'  people,  and  of  the  American  people.'  And  again  :  — 
'  Mr.  Greeley  is  in  many  ways  very  interesting  for  me  to 
'know.  He  teaches  me  things,  which  my  own  influ- 
'  ence  on  those,  who  have  hitherto  approached  me,  has 
'prevented  me  from  learning.  In  our  business  and 
'  friendly  relations,  we  are  on  terms  of  solid  good- will 
£  and  mutual  respect.  With  the  exception  of  my  own 
'  mother,  I  think  him  the  most  disinterestedly  generous 
'person  I  have  ever  known.'  And  later  she  writes:  — 
'  You  have  heard  that  the  Tribune  Office  was  burned 


152  NEW    YORK. 

'  to  the  ground.  For  a  day  I  thought  it  must  make  a 
1  difference,  but  it  has  served  only  to  increase  my  admi- 
'  ration  for  Mr.  Greeley's  smiling  courage.  He  has 
'really  a  strong  character.' 

On  the  other  side,  Mr.  Greeley  thus  records  his  recol- 
lections of  his  friend  :  — 

"My  first  acquaintance  with  Margaret  Fuller  was 
made  through  the  pages  of  'The  Dial.'  The  lofty 
range  and  rare  ability  of  that  work,  and  its  un-Ameri- 
can richness  of  culture  and  ripeness  of  thought,  natur- 
ally 'filled  the  '  fit  audience,  though  few,'  with  a  high 
estimate  of  those  who  were  known  as  its  conductors 
and  principal  writers.  Yet  I  do  not  now  remember 
that  any  article,  which  strongly  impressed  me,  was 
recognized  as  from  the  pen  of  its  female  editor,  prior  to 
the  appearance  of  'The  Great  Lawsuit,'  afterwards 
matured  into  the  volume  more  distinctively,  yet  not 
quite  accurately,  entitled  '  Woman  in  the  Nineteenth 
Century.'  I  think  this  can  hardly  have  failed  to  make 
a  deep  impression  on  the  mind  of  every  thoughtful 
reader,  as  the  production  of  an  original,  vigorous,  and 
earnest  mind.  '  Summer  on  the  Lakes,'  which  appeared 
some  time  after  that  essay,  though  before  its  expansion 
into  a  book,  struck  me  as  less  ambitious  in  its  aim,  but 
more  graceful  and  delicate  in  its  execution ;  and  as  one 
of  the  clearest  and  most  graphic  delineations,  ever  given, 
of  the  Great  Lakes,  of  the  Prairies,  and  of  the  receding 
barbarism,  and  the  rapidly  advancing,  but  rude,  repul- 
sive semi-civilization,  which  were  contending  with  most 
unequal  forces  for  the  possession  of  those  rich  lands.  I 
still  consider  'Summer  on  the  Lakes'  unequalled, 


HORACE    GREELEY.  153 

especially  in  its  pictures  of  the  Prairies  and  of  the  sun- 
nier aspects  of  Pioneer  life. 

"  Yet,  it  was  the  suggestion  of  Mrs.  Greeley,  —  who 
had  spent  some  weeks  of  successive  seasons  in  or  near 
Boston,  and  who  had  there  made  the  personal  acquaint- 
ance of  Miss  Fuller,  and  formed  a  very  high  estimate 
and  warm  attachment  for  her,  —  that  induced  me,  in 
the  autumn  of  1844,  to  offer  her  terms,  which  were 
accepted,  for  her  assistance  in  the  literary  department  of 
the  Tribune.  A  home  in  my  family  was  included  in  the 
stipulation.  I  was  myself  barely  acquainted  with  her, 
when  she  thus  came  to  reside  with  us,  and  I  did  not 
fully  appreciate  her  nobler  qualities  for  some  months 
afterward.  Though  we  were  members  of  the  same 
household,  we  scarcely  met  save  at  breakfast ;  and  my 
time  and  thoughts  were  absorbed  in  duties  and  cares, 
which  left  me  little  leisure  or  inclination  for  the  ameni- 
ties of  social  intercourse.  Fortune  seemed  to  delight  in 
placing  us  two  in  relations  of  friendly  antagonism, — or 
rather,  to  develop  all  possible  contrasts  in  our  ideas  and 
social  habits.  She  was  naturally  inclined  to  luxury 
and  a  good  appearance  before  the  world.  My  pride,  if 
I  had  any,  delighted  in  bare  walls  and  rugged  fare. 
She  was  addicted  to  strong  tea  and  coffee,  both  which  I 
rejected  and  contemned,  even  in  the  most  homoeo- 
pathic dilutions;  while,  my  general  health  being  sound, 
and  hers  sadly  impaired,  I  could  not  fail  to  find  in  her 
dietetic  habits  the  causes  of  her  almost  habitual  illness ; 
and  once,  while  we  were  still  barely  acquainted,  when 
she  came  to  the  breakfast-table  with  a  very  severe 
headache,  I  was  tempted  to  attribute  it  to  her  strong 
potations  of  the  Chinese  leaf  the  night  before.  She  told 
me  quite  frankly  that  she  '  declined  being  lectured  on 


154  NEW    YORK. 

'  the  food  or  beverage  she  saw  fit  to  take ;'  which  was 
but  reasonable  in  one  who  had  arrived  at  her  maturity 
of  intellect  and  fixedness  of  habits.  So  the  subject  was 
thenceforth  tacitly  avoided  between  us;  but,  though 
words  were  suppressed,  looks  and  involuntary  gestures 
could  not  so  well  be ;  and  an  utter  divergency  of  views 
on  this  and  kindred  themes  created  a  perceptible  dis- 
tance between  us. 

"  Her  earlier  contributions  to  the  Tribune  were  not 
her  best,  and  I  did  not  at  first  prize  her  aid  so  highly  as 
I  afterwards  learned  to  do.  She  wrote  always  freshly, 
vigorously,  but  not  always  clearly;  for  her  full  ana 
intimate  acquaintance  with  continental  literature,  espec- 
ially German,  seemed  to  have  marred  her  felicity  and 
readiness  of  expression  in  her  mother  tongue.  While  I 
never  met  another  woman  who  conversed  more  freely  or 
lucidly,  the  attempt  to  commit  her  thoughts  to  paper 
seemed  to  induce  a  singular  embarrassment  and  hesita- 
tion. She  could  write  only  when  in  the  vein ;  and  this 
needed  often  to  be  waited  for  through  several  days, 
while  the  occasion  sometimes  required  an  immediate 
utterance.  The  nejv  book  must  be  reviewed  before 
other  journals  had  thoroughly  dissected  and  discussed  it, 
else  the  ablest  critique  would  command  no  general  atten- 
tion, and  perhaps  be,  by  the  greater  number,  unread. 
That  the  writer  should  wait  the  flow  of  inspiration,  or 
at  least  the  recurrence  of  elasticity  of  spirits  and  relative 
health  of  body,  will  not  seem  unreasonable  to  the  gen- 
eral reader;  but  to  the  inveterate  hack-horse  of  the 
daily  press,  accustomed  to  write  at  any  time,  on  any 
subject,  and  with  a  rapidity  limited  only  by  the  physi- 
cal ability  to  form  the  requisite  pen-strokes,  the  notion 
of  waiting  for  a  brighter  day,  or  a  happier  frame  of 


"WOMAN'S  RIGHTS."  155 

mind,  appears  fantastic  and  absurd.  He  would  as  soon 
think  of  waiting  for  a  change  in  the  moon.  Hence, 
while  I  realized  that  her  contributions  evinced  rare 
intellectual  wealth  and  force,  I  did  not  value  them  as  I 
should  hav.e  done  had  they  been  written  more  fluently 
and  promptly.  They  often  seemed  to  make  their  ap- 
pearance 'a  day  after  the  fair.' 

"One  other  point  of  tacit  antagonism  between  us 
may  as  well  be  noted.  Margaret  was  always  a  most 
earnest,  devoted  champion  of  the  Emancipation  of 
Women,  from  their  past  and  present  condition  of  inferi- 
ority, to  an  independence  on  Men.  She  demanded  for 
them  the  fullest  recognition  of  Social  and  Political 
Equality  with  the  rougher  sex ;  the  freest  access  to  all 
stations,  professions,  employments,  which  are  open  to 
any.  To  this  demand  I  heartily  acceded.  It  seemed 
to  me,  however,  that  her  clear  perceptions  of  abstract 
right  were  often  overborne,  in  practice,  by  the  influence 
of  education  and  habit ;  that  while  she  demanded  abso- 
lute equality  for  Woman,  she  exacted  a  deference  and 
courtesy  from  men  to  women,  as  women,  which  was 
-entirely  inconsistent  with  that  requirement.  In  my 
view,  the  equalizing  theory  can  be  enforced  only  by 
ignoring  the  habitual  discrimination  of  men  and  women, 
as  forming  separate  classes,  and  regarding  all  alike  as 
simply  persons,  — as  human  beings.  So  long  as  a  lady 
shall  deem  herself  in  need  of  some  gentleman's  arm  to 
conduct  her  properly  out  of  a  dining  or  ball-room,  —  so 
long  as  she  shall  consider  it  dangerous  or  unbecoming  to 
walk  half  a  mile  alone  by  night. — I  cannot  see  how 
the  '  Woman's  Rights '  theory  is  ever  to  be  anything 
more  than  a  logically  defensible  abstraction.  In  this 
view  Margaret  did  not  at  all  concur,  and  the  diversity 


156  NEW    YORK. 

was  the  incitement  to  much  perfectly  good-natured,  but 
nevertheless  sharpish  sparring  between  us.  Whenever 
she  said  or  did  anything  implying  the  usual  demand  of 
Woman  on  the  courtesy  and  protection  of  Manhood,  I 
was  apt,  before  complying,  to  look  her  in  the  face  and 
exclaim  with  marked  emphasis,  —  quoting  from  her 
'Woman  in  the  Nineteenth  Century,' — 'LET  THEM  BE 
SEA-CAPTAINS  IF  THEY  WILL  ! '  Of  course,  this  was  given 
and  received  as  raillery,  but  it  did  not  tend  to  ripen 
our  intimacy  or  quicken  my  esteem  into  admiration. 
Though  no  unkind  word  ever  passed  between  us,  nor 
any  approach  to  one,  yet  we  two  dwelt  for  months 
under  the  same  roof,  as  scarcely  more  than  acquaint- 
ances, meeting  once  a  day  at  a  common  board,  and 
having  certain  business  relations  with  each  other. 
Personally,  I  regarded  her  rather  as  my  wife's  cherished 
friend  than  as  my  own,  possessing  many  lofty  qualities 
and  some  prominent  weaknesses,  and  a  good  deal 
spoiled  by  the  unmeasured  flattery  of  her  little  circle 
of  inordinate  admirers.  For  myself,  burning  no  incense 
on  any  human  shrine,  I  half-consciously  resolved  to 
'keep  my  eye-beam  clear,'  and  escape  the  fascination 
which  she  seemed  to  exert  over  the  eminent  and  culti- 
vated persons,  mainly  women,  who  came  to  our  out-of- 
the-way  dwelling  to  visit  her,  and  who  seemed  gener- 
ally to  regard  her  with  a  strangely  Oriental  adoration. 
"  But  as  time  wore  on,  and  I  became  inevitably  better 
and  better  acquainted  with  her,  I  found  myself  drawn, 
almost  irresistibly,  into  the  general  current.  I  found 
that  her  faults  and  weaknesses  were  all  superficial  and 
obvious  to  the  most  casual,  if  undazzled,  observer. 
They  rather  dwindled  than  expanded  upon  a  fuller 
knowledge ;  or  rather,  took  on  new  and  brighter  aspects 


LIBERALITY.  157 

in  the  light  of  her  radiant  and  lofty  soul.  I  learned  to 
know  her  as  a  most  fearless  and  unselfish  champion  of 
Truth  and  Human  Good  at  all  hazards,  ready  to  be 
their  standard-bearer  through  danger  and  obloquy,  and, 
if  need  be,  their  martyr.  I  think  few  have  more  keenly 
appreciated  the  material  goods  of  life,  —  Rank,  Riches, 
Power,  Luxury,  Enjoyment;  but  I  know  none  who 
would  have  more  cheerfully  surrendered  them  all,  if  the 
well-being  of  our  Race  could  thereby  have  been  pro- 
moted. I  have  never  met  another  in  whom  the  inspir- 
ing hope  of  Immortality  was  so  strengthened  into  pro- 
foundest  conviction.  She  did  not  believe  in  our  future 
and  unending  existence,  —  she  knew  it,  and  lived  ever  in 
the  broad  glare  of  its  morning  twilight.  With  a  limited 
income  and  liberal  wants,  she  was  yet  generous  beyond 
the  bounds  of  reason.  Had  the  gold  of  California  been 
all  her  own,  she  would  have  disbursed  nine  tenths  of  it 
in  eager  and  well-directed  efforts  to  stay,  or  at  least 
diminish,  the  flood  of  human  misery.  And  it  is  but  fair 
to  state,  that  the  liberality  she  evinced  was  fully  paral- 
leled by  the  liberality  she  experienced  at  the  hands  of 
others.  Had  she  needed  thousands,  and  made  her 
wants  known,  she  had  friends  who  would  have  cheer- 
fully supplied  her.  I  think  few  persons,  in  their  pecu- 
niary dealings,  have  experienced  and  evinced  more  of 
the  better  qualities  of  human  nature  than  Margaret 
Puller.  She  seemed  to  inspire  those  who  approached 
her  with  that  generosity  which  was  a  part  of  her 
nature. 

"  Of  her  writings  I  do  not  purpose  to  speak  critically. 
I  think  most  of  her  contributions  to  the  Tribune,  while 
she  remained  with  us,  were  characterized  by  a  direct- 
ness, terseness,  and  practicality,  which  are  wanting  in 


158  NEW    YORK. 

some  of  her  earlier  productions.  Good  judges  have 
confirmed  my  own  opinion,  that,  while  her  essays  in  the 
Dial  are  more  elaborate  and  ambitious,  her  reviews  in 
the  Tribune  are  far  better  adapted  to  win  the  favor  and 
sway  the  judgment  of  the  great  majority  of  readers. 
But,  one  characteristic  of  her  writings  I  feel  bound  to 
commend,  —  their  absolute  truthfulness.  She  never 
asked  how  this  would  sound,  nor  whether  that  would 
do,  nor  what  would  be  the  effect  of  saying  anything; 
but  simply,  'Is  it  the  truth?  Is  it  such  as  the  public 
should  know?'  And  if  her  judgment  answered,  'Yes,' 
she  uttered  it;  no  matter  what  turmoil  it  might  excite, 
nor  what  odium  it  might  draw  down  on  her  own  head. 
Perfect  conscientiousness  was  an  unfailing  characteristic 
of  her  literary  efforts.  Even  the  severest  of  her  critiques, 
—  that  on  Longfellow's  Poems,  —  for  which  an  impulse 
in  personal  pique  has  been  alleged,  I  happen  with  cer- 
tainty to  know  had  no  such  origin.  When  I  first 
handed  her  the  book  to  review,  she  excused  herself, 
assigning  the  wide  divergence  of  her  views  of  Poetry 
from  those  of  the  author  and  his  school,  as  her  reason. 
She  thus  induced  me  to  attempt  the  task  of  reviewing  it 
myself.  But  day  after  day  sped  by,  and  I  could  find 
no  hour  that  was  not  absolutely  required  for  the  per- 
formance of  some  duty  that  would  not  be  put  off,  nor 
turned  over  to  another.  At  length  I  carried  the  book 
back  to  her  in  utter  despair  of  ever  finding  an  hour  in 
which  even  to  look  through  it;  and,  at  my  renewed  and 
earnest  request,  she  reluctantly  undertook  its  discussion. 
The  statement  of  these  facts  is  but  an  act  of  justice  to 
her  memory. 

"Profoundly  religious,  —  though   her  creed  was,  at 
once,  very  broad  and  very  short,  with  a  genuine  love 


INDIGNATION.  159 

for  inferiors  in  social  position,  whom  she  was  habitually 
studying,  by  her  counsel  and  teachings,  to  elevate  and 
improve, —  she  won  the  confidence  and  affection  of  those 
who  attracted  her,  by  unbounded  sympathy  and  trust. 
She  probably  knew  the  cherished  secrets  of  more  hearts 
1  than  any  one  else,  because  she  freely  imparted  her  own. 
'"With  a  full  share  both  of  intellectual  and  of  family 
pride,  she  preeminently  recognized  and  responded  to  the 
essential  brotherhood  of  all  human  kind,  and  needed  but 
to  know  that  a  fellow-being  required  her  counsel  or 
assistance,  to  render  her,  not  merely  willing,  but  eager 
to  impart  it.  Loving  ease,  luxury,  and  the  world's  good 
opinion,  she  stood  ready  to  renounce  them  all,  at  the 
call  of  pity  or  of  duty.  I  think  no  one,  not  radically 
averse  to  the  whole  system  of  domestic  servitude,  would 
have  treated  servants,  of  whatever  class,  with  such 
uniform  and  thoughtful  consideration,  —  a  regard  which 
wholly  merged  their  factitious  condition  in  their  antece- 
dent and  permanent  humanity.  I  think  few  servants 
ever  lived  weeks  with  her,  who  were  not  dignified  and 
lastingly  benefited  by  her  influence  and  her  counsels. 
They  might  be  at  first  repelled,  by  what  seemed  her  too 
stately  manner  and  exacting  disposition,  but  they  soon 
learned  to  esteem  and  love  her. 

"I  have  known  few  women,  and  scarcely  another 
maiden,  who  had  the  heart  and  the  courage  to  speak 
with  such  frank  compassion,  in  mixed  circles,  of  the  most 
degraded  and  outcast  portion  of  the  sex.  The  contem- 
plation of  their  treatment,  especially  by  the  guilty 
authors  of  their  ruin,  moved  her  to  a  calm  and  mournful 
indignation,  which  she  did  not  attempt  to  suppress  nor 
control.  Others  were  willing  to  pity  and  deplore;  Mar- 
garet was  more  inclined  to  vindicate  and  to  redeem. 


160  NEW    YORK. 

She  did  not  hesitate  to  avow  that  on  meeting  some  of 
these  abused,  unhappy  sisters,  she  had  been  surprised  to 
find  them  scarcely  fallen  morally  below  the  ordinary 
standard  of  Womanhood,  —  realizing  and  loathing  their 
debasement;  anxious  to  escape  it;  and  only  repelled  by 
the  sad  consciousness  that  for  them  sympathy  and 
society  remained  only  so  long  as  they  should  persist  in 
the  ways  of  pollution.  Those  who  have  read  her 
'Woman,'  may  remember  some  daring  comparisons 
therein  suggested  between  these  Pariahs  of  society  and 
large  classes  of  their  respectable  sisters ;  and  that  was 
no  fitful  expression,  —  no  sudden  outbreak,  —  but  im- 
pelled by  her  most  deliberate  convictions.  I  think,  if 
she  had  been  born  to  large  fortune,  a  house  of  refuge  for 
all  female  outcasts  desiring  to  return  to  the  ways  of 
Virtue,  would  have  been  one  of  her  most  cherished  and 
first  realized  conceptions. 

"  Her  love  of  children  was  one  of  her  most  prominent 
characteristics.  The  pleasure  she  enjoyed  in  their 
society  was  fully  counterpoised  by  that  she  imparted. 
To  them  she  was  never  lofty,  nor  reserved,  nor  mystical ; 
for  no  one  had  ever  a  more  perfect  faculty  for  entering 
into  their  sports,  their  feelings,  their  enjoyments.  She 
could  narrate  almost  any  story  in  language  level  to  their 
capacities,  and  in  a  manner  calculated  to  bring  out  their 
hearty  and  often  boisterously  expressed  delight.  She 
possessed  marvellous  powers  of  observation  and  imita- 
tion or  mimicry ;  and,  had  she  been  attracted  to  the 
stage,  would  have  been  the  first  actress  America  has 
produced,  whether  in  tragedy  or  comedy.  Her  faculty 
of  mimicking  was  not  needed  to  commend  her  to  the 
hearts  of  children,  but  it  had  its  effect  in  increasing  the 
fascinations  of  her  genial  nature  and  heartfelt  joy  in 


LOVE    OF    CHILDREN.  161 

their  society.  To  amuse  and  instruct  them  was  an 
achievement  for  which  she  would  readily  forego  any 
personal  object ;  and  her  intuitive  perception  of  the 
toys,  games,  stories,  rhymes,  &c.,  best  adapted  to  arrest 
and  enchain  their  attention,  was  unsurpassed.  Between 
her  and  my  only  child,  then  living,  who  was  eight 
months  old  when  she  came  to  us,  and  something  over 
two  years  when  she  sailed  for  Europe,  tendrils  of  affec- 
tion gradually  intertwined  themselves,  which  I  trust 
Death  has  not  severed,  but  rather  multiplied  and 
strengthened.  She  became  his  teacher,  playmate,  and 
monitor;  and  he  requited  her  with  a  prodigality  of  love 
and  admiration. 

"I  shall  not  soon  forget  their  meeting  in  my  office, 
after  some  weeks'  separation,  just  before  she  left  us  for- 
ever. His  mother  had  brought  him  in  from  the  country 
and  left  him  asleep  on  my  sofa,  while  she  was  absent 
making  purchases,  and  he  had  rolled  off  and  hurt  him- 
self in  the  fall,  waking  with  the  shock  in  a  phrensy  of 
anger,  just  before  Margaret,  hearing  of  his  arrival, 
rushed  into  the  office  to  find  him.  I  was  vainly 
attempting  to  soothe  him  as  she  entered;  but  he  was 
running  from  one  end  to  the  other  of  the  office,  crying 
passionately,  and  refusing  to  be  pacified.  She  hastened 
to  him,  in  perfect  confidence  that  her  endearments  would 
calm  the  current  of  his  feelings,  —  that  the  sound  of  her 
well-remembered  voice  would  banish  all  thought  of  his 
pain, — and  that  another  moment  would  see  him  re- 
stored to  gentleness ;  but,  half-wakened,  he  did  not  heed 
her,  and  probably  did  not  even  realize  who  it  was  that 
caught  him  repeatedly  in  her  arms  and  tenderly  insisted 
that  he  should  restrain  himself.  At  last  she  desisted  in 
despair ;  and,  with  the  bitter  tears  streaming  down  her 

VOL.  n.  14* 


162  NEW    YORK. 

face,  observed  :  —  '  Pickie,  many  friends  have  treated 
me  unkindly,  but  no  one  had  ever  the  power  to  cut  me 
to  the  heart,  as  you  have!'  Being  thus  let  alone,  he 
soon  came  to  himself,  and  their  mutual  delight  in  the 
meeting  was  rather  heightened  by  the  momentary 
estrangement. 

"They  had  one  more  meeting;  their  last  on  earth! 
'  Aunty  Margaret '  was  to  embark  for  Europe  on  a  certain 
day,  and  'Pickie'  was  brought  into  the  city  to  bid  her 
farewell.  They  met  this  time  also  at  my  office,  and  to- 
gether we  thence  repaired  to  the  ferry-boat,  on  which  she 
was  returning  to  her  residence  in  Brooklyn  to  complete 
her  preparations  for  the  voyage.  There  they  took  a 
tender  and  affecting  leave  of  each  other.  But  soon  his 
mother  called  at  the  office,  on  her  way  to  the  departing 
ship,  and  we  were  easily  persuaded  to  accompany  her 
thither,  and  say  farewell  once  more,  to  the  manifest 
satisfaction  of  both  Margaret  and  the  youngest  of  her 
devoted  friends.  Thus  they  parted,  never  to  meet  again 
in  time.  She  sent  him  messages  and  presents  repeatedly 
from  Europe ;  and  he,  when  somewhat  older,  dictated  a 
letter  in  return,  which  was  joyfully  received  and  ac- 
knowledged. When  the  mother  of  our  great-souled 
friend  spent  some  days  with  us  nearly  two  years  after- 
ward, 'Pickie'  talked  to  her  often  and  lovingly  of 
'  Aunty  Margaret,'  proposing  that  they  two  should  '  take 
a  boat  and  go  over  and  see  her,' — for,  to  his  infantile 
conception,  the  low  coast  of  Long  Island,  visible  just 
across  the  East  River,  was  that  Europe  to  which  she 
had  sailed,  and  where  she  was  unaccountably  detained 
so  long.  Alas  !  a  far  longer  and  more  adventurous  jour- 
ney was  required  to  reunite  those  loving  souls !  The 
12th  of  July,  1849,  saw  him  stricken  down,  from  health 


WRITINGS.  163 

to  death,  by  the  relentless  cholera ;  and  my  letter,  an- 
nouncing that  calamity,  drew  from  her  a  burst  of  pas- 
sionate sorrow,  such  as  hardly  any  bereavement  but  the 
loss  of  a  very  near  relative  could  have  impelled.  An- 
other year  had  just  ended,  when  a  calamity,  equally  sud- 
den, bereft  a  wide  circle  of  her  likewise,  with  her  husband 
and  infant  son.  Little  did  I  fear,  when  I  bade  her  a 
confident  Good-by,  on  the  deck  of  her  outward-bound 
ship,  that  the  sea  would  close  over  her  earthly  remains, 
ere  we  should  meet  again;  far  less  that  the  light  of  my 
eyes  and  the  cynosure  of  my  hopes,  who  then  bade  her 
a  tenderer  and  sadder  farewell,  would  precede  her  on 
the  dim  pathway  to  that  '  Father's  house,'  whence 
is  no  returning!  Ah,  well!  God  is  above  all,  and 
gracious  alike  in  what  he  conceals  and  what  he  dis- 
closes ;  —  benignant  and  bounteous,  as  well  when  he 
reclaims  as  when  he  bestows.  In  a  few  years,  at 
farthest,  our  loved  and  lost  ones  will  welcome  us  to  their 
home." 

Favorably  as  Mr.  Greeley  speaks  of  Margaret's  articles 
in  the  Tribune,  it  is  yet  true  that  she  never  brought  her 
full  power  to  bear  upon  them;  partly  because  she  was 
too  much  exhausted  by  previous  over-work,  partly  be- 
cause it  hindered  her  free  action  to  aim  at  popular  effect. 
Her  own  estimate  of  them  is  thus  expressed :  —  '  I  go  on 
'very  moderately,  for  my  strength  is  not  great,  and  I 
'  am  connected  with  one  who  is  anxious  that  I  should 
'not  overtask  it.  Body  and  mind,  I  have  long  required 
'rest  and  mere  amusement,  and  now  obey  Nature  as 
'  much  as  I  can.  If  she  pleases  to  restore  me  to  an  ener- 
'  getic  state,  she  will  by-and-by ;  if  not,  I  can  only  hope 
•'  this  world  will  not  turn  me  out  of  doors  too  abruptly. 


164  NEW    YORK. 

'I  value  my  present  position  very  much,  as  enabling  me 
'  to  speak  effectually  some  right  words  to  a  large  circle ; 
'  and,  while  I  can  do  so,  am  content.'  Again  she  says : 
—  '  I  am  pleased  with  your  sympathy  about  the  Trib- 
'une,  for  I  do  not  find  much  among  my  old  friends. 
'They  think  I  ought  to  produce  something  excellent, 
'  while  I  am  satisfied  to  aid  in  the  great  work  of  popular 
'  education.  I  never  regarded  literature  merely  as  a  col- 
'  lection  of  exquisite  products,  but  rather  as  a  means  of 
'  mutual  interpretation.  Feeling  that  many  are  reached 
'  and  in  some  degree  helped,  the  thoughts  of  every  day 
'seem  worth  noting,  though  in  a  form  that  does  not 
'  inspire  me.'  The  most  valuable  of  her  contributions, 
according  to  her  own  judgment,  were  the  Criticisms  on 
Contemporary  Authors  in  Europe  and  America.  A  few 
of  these  were  revised  in  the  spring  of  1846,  and,  in  con- 
nection with  some  of  her  best  articles  selected  from  the 
Dial,  Western  Messenger,  American  Monthly,  &c.,  ap- 
peared in  two  volumes  of  Wiley  and  Putnam's  Library 
of  American  Books,  under  the  title  of  PAPERS  ON  ART  AND 
LITERATURE. 

SOCIETY. 

Heralded  by  her  reputation  as  a  scholar,  writer,  and 
talker,  and  brought  continually  before  the  public  by  her 
articles  in  the  Tribune,  Margaret  found  a  circle  of 
acquaintance  opening  before  her,  as  wide,  various,  and 
rich,  as  time  and  inclination  permitted  her  to  know. 
Persons  sought  her  in  her  country  retreat,  attracted 
alike  by  idle  curiosity,  desire  for  aid,  and  respectful 
sympathy.  She  visited  freely  in  several  interesting 
families  in  New  York  and  Brooklyn ;  occasionally  ac- 


SOCIETY.  165 

cepted  invitations  to  evening  parties,  and  often  met,  at 
the  somewhat  celebrated  soirees  of  Miss  Lynch,  the 
assembled  authors,  artists,  critics,  wits,  and  dilettanti 
of  New  York.  As  was  inevitable,  also,  for  one  of  such 
powerful  magnetic  influence,  liberal  soul  and  broad 
judgment,  she  once  again  became,  as  elsewhere  she  had 
been,  a  confidant  and  counsellor  of  the  tempted  and 
troubled;  and  her  geniality,  lively  conversation,  and 
ever  fresh  love,  gave  her  a  home  in  many  hearts.  But 
the  subdued  tone  of  her  spirits  at  this  period  led  her 
to  prefer  seclusion. 

Of  her  own  social  habits  she  writes :  —  '  It  is  not  well 
to  keep  entirely  apart  from  the  stream  of  common  life; 
so,  though  I  never  go  out  when  busy,  nor  keep  late 
hours,  I  find  it  pleasanter  and  better  to  enter  somewhat 
into  society.  I  thus  meet  with  many  entertaining  ac- 
quaintance, and  some  friends.  I  can  never,  indeed, 
expect,  in  America,  or  in  this  world,  to  form  relations 
with  nobler  persons  than  I  have  already  known ;  nor 
can  I  put  my  heart  into  these  new  ties  as  into  the  old 
ones,  though  probably  it  would  still  respond  to  com- 
manding excellence.  But  my  present  circle  satisfies 
my  wants.  As  to  what  is  called  "good  society,"  I  am 
wholly  indifferent.  I  know  several  women,  whom  I 
like  very  much,  and  yet  more  men.  I  hear  good 
music,  which  answers  my  social  desires  better  than 
any  other  intercourse  can;  and  I  love  four  or  five  inter- 
esting children,  in  whom  I  always  find  more  genuine 
sympathy  than  in  their  elders.' 

Ol  the  impression  produced  by  Margaret  on  those  \vho 
vere  but  slightly  acquainted  with  her,  some  notion  may 
b*.  formed  from  the  following  sketch:  —  "In  general 
society,  she  commanded  respect  rather  than  admiration 


166  NEW   YORK. 

All  persons  were  curious  to  see  her,  and  in  full  rooms 
her  fine  head  and  spiritual  expression  at  once  marked 
her  out  from  the  crowd;  but  the  most  were  repelled  by 
what  seemed  conceit,  pedantry,  and  a  harsh  spirit  of 
criticism,  while,  on  her  part,  she  appeared  to  regard 
those  around  her  as  frivolous,  superficial,  and  con- 
ventional. Indeed,  I  must  frankly  confess,  that  we  did 
not  meet  in  pleasant  relations,  except  now  and  then, 
when  the  lifting  of  a  veil,  as  it  were,  revealed  for  a 
moment  the  true  life  of  each.  Yet  I  was  fond  of  look- 
ing at  her  from  a  distance,  and  defending  her  when 
silly  people  were  inclined  to  cavil  at  her  want  of  femi- 
nine graces.  Then  I  would  say,  '  1  would  like  to  be  an 
artist  now,  that  I  might  paint,  not  the  care-worn  coun- 
tenance and  the  uneasy  air  of  one  seemingly  out  of 
harmony  with  the  scene  about  her,  but  the  soul  that 
sometimes  looks  out  from  under  those  large  lids. 
Michel  Angelo  would  have  made  her  a  Sibyl.'  I  re- 
member I  was  surprised  to  find  her  height  no  greater; 
for  her  writings  had  always  given  me  an  impression  of 
magnitude.  Thus  I  studied  though  I  avoided  her,  ad- 
mitting, the  while,  proudly  and  joyously,  that  she  was 
a  woman  to  reverence.  A  trifling  incident,  however, 
gave  me  the  key  to  much  in  her  character,  of  which, 
before,  I  had  not  dreamed.  It  was  one  evening,  after  a 
Valentine  party,  where  Frances  Osgood,  Margaret  Ful- 
ler, and  other  literary  ladies,  had  attracted  some  atten- 
tion, that,  as  we  were  in  the  dressing-room  preparing  to 
go  home,  I  heard  Margaret  sigh  deeply.  Surprised  and 
moved,  I  said,  'Why?'  —  'Alone,  as  usual,'  was  her 
pathetic  answer,  followed  by  a  few  sweet,  womanly 
remarks,  touching  as  they  were  beautiful.  Often,  after, 
I  found  myself  recalling  her  look  and  tone,  with  tears  in 


JUSTICE.  167 

my  eyes ;  for  before  I  had  regarded  her  as  a  being  cold, 
and  abstracted,  if  not  scornful." 

Cold,  abstracted,  and  scornful !  About  this  very  time 
it  was  that  Margaret  wrote  in  her  journal :  —  '  Father, 
'  let  me  not  injure  my  fellows  during  this  period  of  re- 
'  pression.  I  feel  that  when  we  meet  my  tones  are  not 
'  so  sweet  as  I  would  have  them.  O,  let  me  not  wound  ! 
'  I,  who  know  so  well  how  wounds  can  burn  and  ache, 
'should  not  inflict  them.  Let  my  touch  be  light  and 
1  gentle.  Let  me  keep  myself  uninvaded,  but  let  me  not 
' fail  to  be  kind  and  tender,  when  need  is.  Yet  I  would 
'not  assume  an  overstrained  poetic  magnanimity.  Help 
'  me  to  do  just  right,  and  no  more.  O,  make  truth  pro- 
' found  and  simple  in  me!'  Again:  —  'The  heart  bleeds, 
'  —  faith  almost  gives  way,  —  to  see  man's  seventy 
'years  of  chrysalis.  Is  it  not  too  long?  Enthusiasm 
'  must  struggle  fiercely  to  burn  clear  amid  these  fogs.  In 
'  what  little,  low,  dark  cells  of  care  and  prejudice,  with- 
'out  one  soaring  thought  or  melodious  fancy,  do  pool 
'  mortals  —  well-intentioned  enough,  and  with  religious 
'  aspiration  too  —  forever  creep.  And  yet  the  sun  sets 
'  to-day  as  gloriously  bright  as  ever  it  did  on  the  temples 
'of  Athens,  and  the  evening  star  rises  as  heavenly  pure 
'  as  it  rose  on  the  eye  of  Dante.  O,  Father !  help  me  to 
'  free  my  fellows  from  the  conventional  bonds  whereby 
'  their  sight  is  holden.  By  purity  and  freedom  let  me 
'  teach  them  justice.'  And  yet  again  :  —  '  There  comes 
'  a  consciousness  that  I  have  no  real  hold  on  life,  —  no 
'  real,  permanent  connection  with  any  soul.  I  seem  a 
'  wandering  Intelligence,  driven  from  spot  to  spot,  that  I 
'  may  learn  all  secrets,  and  fulfil  a  circle  of  knowledge. 
'  This  thought  envelopes  me  as  a  cold  atmosphere.  1 


168  NEW    YORK. 

{ do  not  see  how  I  shall  go  through  this  destiny.     I  can, 
1  if  it  is  mine ;  but  I  do  not  feel  that  I  can.'  ^ 

Casual  observers  mistook  Margaret's  lofty  idealism 
for  personal  pride ;  but  thus  speaks  one  who  really  knew 
her:  —  "You  come  like  one  of  the  great  powers  of 
nature,  harmonizing  with  all  beauty  of  the  soul  or  of 
the  earth.  You  cannot  be  discordant  with  anything 
that  is  true  and  deep.  I  thank  God  for  the  noble  privi- 
lege of  being  recognized  by  so  large,  tender,  and  radiant 
a  soul  as  thine." 


EUROPE. 

LETTERS 


"  I  go  to  prove  my  soul. 
I  see  my  way,  as  birds  their  trackless  way. 
In  some  time,  God's  good  time,  I  shall  arrive  • 
He  guides  me  and  the  bird.    In  his  good  time  !  " 

BROWNING. 

;  One,  -who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 
Some  awful  moment,  to  which  Heaven  has  joined 
Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human  kind, 
Is  happy  as  a  lover,  and  attired 
With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  man  inspired; 
And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict,  keeps  the  law 
In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw." 

WORDSWORTH. 

'  Italia  !  Italia  !  0  tu  cui  feo  la  sorte 
Dono  infelice  di  bellezza,  ond'  hai 
Funesta  dote  d'  infiniti  guai, 
Che  in  fronte  scritti  per  gran  doglia  porte. 
Deh,  fossi  tu  men  bella,  6  almen  piii  forte  1" 

FIUCAJA. 


15 


"  Oh  .  not  to  guess  it  at  the  first . 
But  I  did  guess  it,  —  that  is,  I  divined, 
Felt  by  an  instinct  how  it  was ;  —  why  else 
Should  I  pronounce  you  free  from  all  that  heap 
Of  sins,  which  had  been  irredeemable  ? 
I  felt  they  were  not  yours." 

BROWNING. 

"  Nests  there  are  many  of  this  very  year, 
Many  the  nests  are,  which  the  winds  shall  shake, 

The  rains  run  through  and  other  birds  beat  down 
Yours,  0  Aspasia !  rests  against  the  temple 
Of  heavenly  love,  and,  thence  inviolate, 
It  shall  not  fall  this  winter,  nor  the  next." 

LANDOH. 

;  Lift  up  your  heart  upon  the  knees  of  God, 
Losing  yourself,  your  smallness  and  your  darkness 
In  His  great  light,  who  fills  and  moves  the  world, 
Who  hath  alone  the  quiet  of  perfect  motion." 

SlERLINa. 


VIII. 

EUROPE. 


[Ix  has  been  judged  best  to  let  Margaret  herself  tell 
the  story  of  her  travels.  In  the  spring  of  1846,  her 
valued  friends,  Marcus  Spring  and  lady,  of  New  York, 
had  decided  to  make  a  tour  in  Europe,  with  their  son, 
and  they  invited  Miss  Fuller  to  accompany  them.  An 
arrangement  was  soon  made  on  such  terms  as  she  could 
accept,  and  the  party  sailed  from  Boston  in  the  "  Cam- 
bria," on  the  first  of  August.  The  following  narrative 
is  made  up  of  letters  addressed  by  her  to  various  corre- 
spondents. Some  extracts,  describing  distinguished  per- 
sons whom  she  saw,  have  been  borrowed  from  her  let- 
ters to  the  New  York  Tribune.] 

TO   MRS.  MARGARET   FULLER. 

Liverpool,  Aug.  16,  1846. 
My  dear  Mother :  — 

The  last  two  days  at  sea  passed  well  enough,  as  a 
number  of  agreeable  persons  were  introduced  to  me,  and 
there  were  several  whom  I  knew  before.  I  enjoyed 
nothing  on  the  sea ;  the  excessively  bracing  air  so  affected 


172  EUROPE. 

me  that  I  could  not  bear  to  look  at  it.  The  sight  of 
land  delighted  me.  The  tall  crags,  with  their  breakers 
and  circling  sea-birds  ;  then  the  green  fields,  how  glad  ! 
We  had  a  very  fine  day  to  come  ashore,  and  made  the 
shortest  passage  ever  known.  The  stewardess  said, 
"Any  one  who  complained  this  time  tempted  the 
Almighty."  I  did  not  complain,  but  I  could  hardly 
have  borne  another  day.  I  had  no  appetite;  but  am 
now  making  up  for  all  deficiencies,  and  feel  already  a 
renovation  beginning  from  the  voyage;  and,  still  more, 
from  freedom  and  entire  change  of  scene. 

We  came  here  Wednesday,  at  noon ;  next  day  we  went 
to  Manchester ;  the  following  day  to  Chester;  returning 
here  Saturday  evening. 

On  Sunday  we  went  to  hear  James  Martineau ;  were 
introduced  to  him,  and  other  leading  persons.  The  next 
day  and  evening  I  passed  in  the  society  of  very  pleasant 
people,  who  have  made  every  exertion  to  give  me  the 
means  of  seeing  and  learning ;  but  they  have  used  up 
all  my  strength. 


As  soon  as  I  reached  England,  I  found  how  right  we 
[were  in  supposing  there  was  elsewhere  a  greater  range 
;of  interesting  character  among  the  men,  than  with  us. 

do  not  find,  indeed,  any  so  valuable  as  three  or  four 
among  the  most  marked  we  have  known ;  but  many 
that  are  strongly  individual,  and  have  a  fund  of  hidden 
life. 

In  Westmoreland,  I  knew,  and  have  since  been  see- 
ing in  London,  a  man,  such  as  would  interest  you 
a  good  deal ;  Mr.  Atkinson.  He  is  sometimes  called  the 


WORDSWORTH.  173 

"  prince  of  the  English  mesmerisers ;"  and  he  has  the 
fine  instinctive  nature  you  may  suppose  from  that.  He 
is  a  man  of  about  thirty;  in  the  fulness  of  his  powers; 
tall,  and  finely  formed,  with  a  head  for  Leonardo 
to  paint;  mild  and  composed,  but  powerful  and  saga- 
cious; he  does  not  think,  but  perceives  and  acts.  He 
is  intimate  with  artists,  having  studied  architecture 
himself  as  a  profession;  but  has  some  fortune  on  which 
he  lives.  Sometimes  stationary  and  acting  in  the  affairs 
of  other  men ;  sometimes  wandering  about  the  world 
and  learning;  he  seems  bound  by  no  tie,  yet  looks  as  if 
he  had  relatives  in  every  place. 

I  saw,  also,  a  man,  —  an  artist,  —  severe  and  antique 
in  his  spirit;  he  seemed  burdened  by  the  sorrows  of 
aspiration;  yet  very  calm,  as  secure  in  the  justice  of 
fate.  What  he  does  is  bad,  but  full  of  a  great  desire. 
His  name  is  David  Scott.  I  saw  another,  —  a  pupil  of 
De  la  Roche,  —  very  handsome,  and  full  of  a  volup- 
tuous enjoyment  of  nature:  him  I  liked  a  little  in  a 
different  way. 

By  far  the  most  beauteous  person  I  have  seen  is 
Joseph  Mazzini.  If  you  ever  see  Saunders'  "  People's 
Journal,"  you  can  read  articles  by  him  that  will  give 
you  some  notion  of  his  mind,  especially  one  on  his 
friends,  headed  "Italian  Martyrs."  He  is  one  in  whom 
holiness  has  purified,  but  somewhat  dwarfed  the  man. 

Our  visit  to  Mr.  Wordsworth  was  fortunate.  He  is 
seventy-six;  but  his  is  a  florid,  fair  old  age.  He  walked 
with  us  to  all  his  haunts  about  the  house.  Its  situa- 
tion is  beautiful,  and  the  "  Rydalian  Laurels "  are 
magnificent.  Still,  I  saw  abodes  among  the  hills  that  I 
should  have  preferred  for  Wordsworth ;  more  wild  and 

VOL.    II.  15* 


174  EUROPE. 

still  more  romantic.  The  fresh  and  lovely  Rydal 
Mount  seems  merely  the  retirement  of  a  gentleman, 
rather  than  the  haunt  of  a  poet.  He  showed  his 
benignity  of  disposition  in  several  little  things,  especially 
in  his  attentions  to  a  young  boy  we  had  with  us.  This 
boy  had  left  the  circus,  exhibiting  its  feats  of  horseman- 
ship, in  Ambleside,  "for  that  day  only,"  at  his  own 
desire  to  see  Wordsworth;  and  I  feared  he  would  be 
dissatisfied,  as  I  know  I  should  have  been  at  his  age, 
if,  when  called  to  see  a  poet,  I  had  found  no  Apollo 
flaming  with  youthful  glory,  laurel-crowned,  and  lyre  in 
hand ;  but,  instead,  a  reverend  old  man  clothed  in  black, 
and  walking  with  cautious  step  along  the  level  garden- 
path.  However,  he  was  not  disappointed ;  and  Words- 
worth, in  his  turn,  seemed  to  feel  and  prize  a  congenial 
nature  in  this  child. 

Taking  us  into  the  house,  he  showed  us  the  picture 
of  his  sister,  repeating  with  much  expression  some  lines 
of  hers,  and  those  so  famous  of  his  about  her,  beginning 
"  Five  years,"  &c. ;  also,  his  own  picture,  by  Inman,  of 
whom  he  spoke  with  esteem.  I  had  asked  to  see  a 
picture  in  that  room,  which  has  been  described  in  one 
of  the  finest  of  his  later  poems.  A  hundred  times  had  I 
wished  to  see  this  picture,  yet  when  seen  was  not  disap- 
pointed by  it.  The  light  was  unfavorable,  but  it  had  a 
light  of  its  own,  — 

"  whose  mild  gleam 
Of  beauty  never  ceases  to  enrich 
The  common  light." 

Mr.  Wordsworth  is  fond  of  the  hollyhock;  a  par- 
tiality scarcely  deserved  by  the  flower,  but  which  marks 


WORDSWORTH.  175 

the  simplicity  of  his  tastes.  He  had  made  a  long  ave- 
nue of  them,  of  all  colors,  from  the  crimson  brown  to 
rose,  straw-color,  and  white,  and  pleased  himself  with 
having  made  proselytes  to  a  liking  for  them,  among  his 
neighbors. 

I  never  have  seen  such  magnificent  fuchsias  as  at 
Ambleside,  and  there  was  one  to  be  seen  in  every  cot- 
tage-yard. They  are  no  longer  here  under  the  shelter 
of  the  green-house,  as  with  us,  and  as  they  used  to  be 
in  England.  The  plant,  from  its  grace  and  finished 
elegance,  being  a  great  favorite  of  mine,  I  should  like  to 
see  it  as  frequently  and  of  as  luxuriant  growth  at  home, 
and  asked  their  mode  of  culture,  which  I  here  mark 
down  for  the  benefit  of  all  who  may  be  interested. 
Make  a  bed  of  bog-earth  and  sand ;  put  down  slips  of 
the  fuchsia,  and  give  them  a  great  deal  of  water;  this 
is  all  they  need.  People  leave  them  out  here  in  winter, 
but  perhaps  they  would  not  bear  the  cold  of  our  Jan- 
uaries. 

Mr.  Wordsworth  spoke  with  more  liberality  than  we 
expected  of  the  recent  measures  about  the  Corn-laws, 
saying  that  "the  principle  was  certainly  right,  though 
whether  existing  interests  had  been  as  carefully  at- 
tended to  as  was  right,  he  was  not  prepared  to  say," 
&c.  His  neighbors_were  pleased  to  hear  of  his  speaking 
thus  mildly,  and  hailed  it  as  a  sign  that  he  was  opening 
his  mind  to  more  light  on  these  subjects.  They  lament 
thatvlhis  habits  of  seclusion  keep  him  ignorant  of 
the  real  wants  of  Eng]aind_andxhe-  world.  Living  in  this 
region,  which  is  cultivated  by  small  proprietors,  where 
there_is  little  poverty^vice,  or  misery,  he  hears  not  the 
voice  which  jcries  so  loudly  from  other  parts  of  England, 
and  will  not  be  stilled  by  sweet,  poetic  suasion,  or 


176  EUROPE. 

philjTsnjTTr^Jor   it.   is    the   cry  of   men   in    the  jaws   of 
destruction. 

rf\vas  pleasant  to  find  the  reverence  inspired  by  this 
great  and  pure  mind  warmest  near  home.  Our  land- 
lady, in  heaping  praises  upon  him,  added,  constantly, 
"and  Mrs.  Wordsworth,  too."  "Do  the  people  here," 
said  I,  "value  Mr.  Wordsworth  most  because  he  is  a 
celebrated  writer?"  "Truly,  madam,"  said  she,  "I 
think  it  is  because  he  is  so  kind  a  neighbor." 

"  True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home." 
EDINBURGH.  DE  QUINCEY. 

At  Edinburgh  we  were  in  the  wrong  season,  and 
many  persons  we  most  wished  to  see  were  absent.  We 
had,  however,  the  good  fortune  to  find  Dr.  Andrew 
Combe,  who  received  us  with  great  kindness.  I  was 
impressed  with  great  and  affectionate  respect,  by  the 
benign  and  even  temper  of  his  mind,  his  extensive  and 
accurate  knowledge,  accompanied  by  a  large  and  intelli- 
gent liberality.  Of  our  country  he  spoke  very  wisely 
-and  hopefully. 

I  had  the  satisfaction,  not  easily  attainable  now,  of 
seeing  De  Quincey  for  some  hours,  and  in  the  mood  of 
conversation.  As  one  belonging  to  the  Wordsworth 
and  Coleridge  constellation  (he,  too,  is  now  seventy 
years  of  age),  the  thoughts  and  knowledge  of  Mr.  De 
Quincey  lie  in  the  past,  and  oftentimes  he  spoke  of  mat- 
ters now  become  trite  to  one  of  a  later  culture.  But  to 
all  that  fell  from  his  lips,  his  eloquence,  subtle  and  for- 
cible as  the  wind,  full  and  gently  falling  as  the  evening 
dew,  lent  a  peculiar  charm.  He  is  an  admirable  nar- 


EDINBURGH.  177 

rator ;  not  rapid,  but  gliding  along  like  a  rivulet  through 
a  green  meadow,  giving  and  taking  a  thousand  little 
beauties  not  absolutely  required  to  give  his  story  due 
relief,  but  each,  in  itself,  a  separate  boon. 

I  admired,  too,  his  urbanity;  so  opposite  to  the  rapid, 
slang,  Vivian-Greyish  style,  current  in  the  literary  con- 
versation of  the  day.  "Sixty  years  since,"  men  had 
time  to  do  things  better  and  more  gracefully. 

CHALMERS. 

With  Dr.  Chalmers  we  passed  a  couple  of  hours.  He 
is  old  now,  but  still  full  of  vigor  and  fire.  We  had  an 
opportunity  of  hearing  a  fine  burst  of  indignant  elo- 
quence from  him.  "I  shall  blush  to  rny  very  bones." 
said  he,  "  if  the  C/taarrc/t,"  (sound  these  two  rrs  with  as 
much  burr  as  possible,  and  you  will  get  an  idea  of  his 
mode  of  pronouncing  that  imweariable  word,)  "if  the 
Chaarrch  yield  to  the  storm."  He  alluded  to  the  outcry 
now  raised  by  the  Abolitionists  against  the  Free  Church, 
whose  motto  is,  "Send  back  the  money;"  i.  e.,  the 
money  taken  from  the  American  slaveholders.  Dr.  C. 
felt,  that  if  they  did  not  yield  from  conviction,  they  must 
not  to  assault.  His  manner  in  speaking  of  this  gave 
me  a  hint  of  the  nature  of  his  eloquence.  He  seldom 
preaches  now. 

A  Scottish  gentleman  told  me  the  following  story  :  — 
Burns,  still  only  in  the  dawn  of  his  celebrity,  was  in- 
vited to  dine  with  one  of  the  neighboring  so-called  gen- 
try, unhappily  quite  void  of  true  gentle  blood.  On 
arriving,  he  found  his  plate  set  in  the  servants'  room. 
After  dinner,  he  was  invited  into  a  room  where  guests 


178  EUROPE. 

were  assembled,  and,  a  chair  being  placed  for  him  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  board,  a  glass  of  wine  was  offered,  and 
he  was  requested  to  sing  one  of  his  songs  for  the  enter- 
tainment of  the  company.  He  drank  off  the  wine,  and 
thundered  forth  in  reply  his  grand  song  "  For  a'  that 
and  a'  that,"  and  having  finished  his  prophecy  and 
prayer,  nature's  nobleman  left  his  churlish  entertainers 
to  hide  their  heads  in  the  home  they  had  disgraced. 

A   NIGHT    ON    BEN   LOMOND. 

At  Inversnaid,  we  took  a  boat  to  go  down  Loch  Lo- 
mond, to  the  little  inn  of  Rowardennan,  from  which  the 
ascent  is  made  of  Ben  Lomond.  We  found  a  day 
of  ten  thousand,  for  our  purpose;  but,  unhappily,  a 
large  party  had  come  with  the  sun,  and  engaged  all  the 
horses,  so  that  if  we  went,  it  must  be  on  foot.  This 
was  something  of  an  enterprise  for  me,  as  the  ascent  is 
four  miles,  and  toward  the  summit  quite  fatiguing. 
However,  in  the  pride  of  newly-gained  health  and 
strength,  I  was  ready,  and  set  forth  with  Mr.  S.  alone. 
We  took  no  guide,  and  the  people  of  the  house  did  not 
advise  us  to  take  one,  as  they  ought. 

On  reaching  the  peak,  the  sight  was  one  of  beauty  and 
grandeur  such  as  imagination  never  painted.  You  see 
around  you  no  plain  ground,  but  on  every  side  constel- 
lations, or  groups  of  hills,  exquisitely  dressed  in  the  soft 
purple  of  the  heather,  amid  which  gleam  the  lakes,  like 
eyes  that  tell  the  secrets  of  the  earth,  and  drink  in  those 
of  the  heavens.  Peak  beyond  peak  caught  from  the  shift- 
ing light  all  the  colors  of  the  prism,  and,  on  the  furthest, 
angel  companies  seemed  hovering  in  glorious  white  robes. 

About  four  o'clock  we  began  our  descent.     Near  the 


A  NIGHT  ON  BEN  LOMOND.  179 

summit,  the  traces  of  the  path  are  not  distinct,  and  I 
said  to  Mr.  S.,  after  a  while,  that  we  had  lost  it.  He  said 
he  thought  that  was  of  no  consequence ;  we  could  find 
our  way  down.  I  said  I  thought  it  was,  as  the  ground 
was  full  of  springs  that  were  bridged  over  in  the  path- 
way. He  accordingly  went  to  look  for  it,  and  I  stood  still, 
because  I  was  so  tired  I  did  not  like  to  waste  any  labor. 

Soon  he  called  to  me  that  he  had  found  it,  and  I  fol- 
lowed in  the  direction  where  he  seemed  to  be.  But  I 
mistook,  overshot  it,  and  saw  him  no  more.  In  about 
ten  minutes  I  became  alarmed,  and  called  him  many 
times.  It  seems,  he  on  his  side  shouted  also,  but  the 
brow  of  some  hill  was  between  us,  and  we  neither  saw 
nor  heard  one  another.  I  then  thought  I  would  make 
the  best  of  my  way  down,  and  I  should  find  him  when 
I  arrived.  But,  in  doing  so,  I  found  the  justice  of  my 
apprehension  about  the  springs,  so  soon  as  I  got  to  the 
foot  of  the  hills ;  for  I  would  sink  up  to  my  knees  in 
bog,  and  must  go  up  the  hills  again,  seeking  better  cross- 
ing places.  Thus  I  lost  much  time.  Nevertheless,  in 
the  twilight,  I  saw,  at  last,  the  lake,  and  the  inn  of 
Rowardennan  on  its  shore. 

Between  me  and  it,  lay,  direct,  a  high  heathery  hill, 
which  I  afterwards  found  is  called  "  The  Tongue,"  be- 
cause hemmed  in  on  three  sides  by  a  water-course.  It 
looked  as  if,  could  I  only  get  to  the  bottom  of  that,  I  should 
be  on  comparatively  level  ground.  I  then  attempted  to 
descend  in  the  water-course,  but,  finding  that  impractica- 
ble, climbed  on  the  hill  again,  and  let  myself  down  by 
the  heather,  for  it  was  very  steep,  and  full  of  deep  holes. 
With  great  fatigue,  I  got  to  the  bottom ;  but  when  I  was 
about  to  cross  the  water-course  there,  I  felt  afraid,  it 
looked  so  deep  in  the  dim  twilight.  I  got  down  as  far 


180  EUROPE. 

as  I  could  by  the  root  of  a  tree,  and  threw  down  a  stone. 
It  sounded  very  hollow,  and  I  was  afraid  to  jump.  The 
shepherds  told  me  afterwards,  if  I  had,  I  should  proba- 
bly have  killed  myself,  it  was  so  deep,  and  the  bed  of 
the  torrent  full  of  sharp  stones. 

I  then  tried  to  ascend  the  hill  again,  for  there  was  no 
other  way  to  get  off  it;  but  soon  sank  down  utterly  ex- 
hausted. When  able  to  get  up  again,  and  look  about 
me,  it  was  completely  dark.  I  saw,  far  below  me,  a 
light,  that  looked  about  as  big  as  a  pin's  head,  that  I 
knew  to  be  from  the  inn  at  Rowardennan,  but  heard  no 
sound  except  the  rush  of  the  waterfall,  and  the  sighing 
of  the  night  wind. 

For  the  first  few  minutes  after  I  perceived  I  had  come 
to  my  night's  lodging,  such  as  it  was,  the  circumstance 
looked  appalling.  I  was  very  lightly  clad,  my  feet  and 
dress  were  very  wet,  I  had  only  a  little  shawl  to  throw 
round  me,  and  the  cold  autumn  wind  had  already  come, 
and  the  night  mist  was  to  fall  on  me,  all  fevered  and  ex- 
hausted as  I  was.  I  thought  I  should  not  live  through 
the  night,  or,  if  I  did,  I  must  be  an  invalid  hencefor- 
ward. I  could  not  even  keep  myself  warm  by  walking, 
for,  now  it  was  dark,  it  would  be  too  dangerous  to  stir. 
My  only  chance,  however,  lay  in  motion,  and  my  only 
help  in  myself;  and  so  convinced  was  I  of  this,  that  I  did 
keep  in  motion  the  whole  of  that  long  night,  imprisoned 
as  I  was  on  such  a  little  perch  of  that  great  mountain. 

For  about  two  hours,  I  saw  the  stars,  and  very  cheery 
and  companionable  they  looked ;  but  then  the  mist  fell, 
and  I  saw  nothing  more,  except  such  apparitions  as 
visited  Ossian,  on  the  hill-side,  when  he  went  out  by 
night,  and  struck  the  bosky  shield,  and  called  to  him  the 
spirits  of  the  heroes,  and  the  white-armed  maids,  with 


BEN   LOMOND.  181 

their  blue  eyes  of  grief.  To  me,  too,  came  those  vision- 
ary shapes.  Floating  slowly  and  gracefully,  their  white 
robes  would  unfurl  from  the  great  body  of  mist  in  which 
they  had  been  engaged,  and  come  upon  me  with  a  kiss 
pervasively  cold  as  that  of  death.  Then  the  moon  rose. 
I  could  not  see  her,  but  her  silver  light  filled  the  mist. 
Now  I  knew  it  was  two  o'clock,  and  that,  having 
weathered  out  so  much  of  the  night,  I  might  the  rest; 
and  the  hours  hardly  seemed  long  to  me  more. 

It  may  give  an  idea  of  the  extent  of  the  mountain, 
that,  though  I  called,  every  now  and  then,  with  all  my 
force,  in  case  by  chance  some  aid  might  be  near,  and 
though  no  less  than  twenty  men,  with  their  dogs,  were 
looking  for  me,  I  never  heard  a  sound,  except  the  rush 
of  the  waterfall  and  the  sighing  of  the  night  wind,  and 
once  or  twice  the  startling  of  the  grouse  in  the  heather. 
It  was  sublime  indeed,  —  a  never-to-be-forgotten  presen- 
tation of  stern,  serene  realities.  At  last  came  the  signs 
of  day,  —  the  gradual  clearing  and  breaking  up ;  some 
faint  sounds  from  I  know  not  what;  the  little  flies,  too, 
arose  from  their  bed  amid  the  purple  heather,  and  bit 
me.  Truly  they  were  very  welcome  to  do  so.  But 
what  was  my  disappointment  to  find  the  mist  so  thick, 
that  I  could  see  neither  lake  nor  inn,  nor  anything  to 
guide  me.  I  had  to  go  by  guess,  and,  as  it  happened, 
my  Yankee  method  served  me  well.  I  ascended  the 
hill,  crossed  the  torrent,  in  the  waterfall,  first  drinking 
some  of  the  water,  which  was  as  good  at  that  time  as 
ambrosia.  I  crossed  in  that  place,  because  the  waterfall 
made  steps,  as  it  were,  to  the  next  hill.  To  be  sure, 
they  were  covered  with  water,  but  I  was  already  en- 
tirely wet  with  the  mist,  so  that  it  did  not  matter.  I 
kept  on  scrambling,  as  it  happened,  in  the  right  direc- 

VOL.  n.  16 


182  EUROPE. 

tion,  till,  about  seven,  some  of  the  shepherds  found  me. 
The  moment  they  came,  all  my  feverish  strength  de- 
parted, and  they  carried  me  home,  where  my  arrival 
relieved  my  friends  of  distress  far  greater  than  I  had 
undergone;  for  I  had  my  grand  solitude,  my  Ossi- 
anic  visions,  and  the  pleasure  of  sustaining  myself;  while 
they  had  only  doubt,  amounting  to  anguish,  and  a 
fruitless  search  through  the  night. 

Entirely  contrary  to  my  forebodings,  I  only  suifered 
for  this  a  few  days,  and  was  able  to  take  a  parting  look 
at  my  prison,  as  I  went  down  the  lake,  with  feelings  of 
complacency.  It  was  a  majestic-looking  hill,  that 
Tongue,  with  the  deep  ravines  on  either  side,  and  the 
richest  robe  of  heather  I  have  anywhere  seen. 

Mr.  S.  gave  all  the  men  who  were  looking  for  me  a 
dinner  in  the  barn,  and  he  and  Mrs.  S.  ministered  to 
them ;  and  they  talked  of  Burns,  —  really  the  national 
writer,  and  known  by  them,  apparently,  as  none  other  is, 
—  and  of  hair-breadth  'scapes  by  flood  and  fell.  After- 
wards they  were  all  brought  up  to  see  me,  and  it  was 
gratifying  to  note  the  good  breeding  and  good  feeling 
with  which  they  deported  themselves.  Indeed,  this 
adventure  created  quite  an  intimate  feeling  between  us 
and  the  people  there.  I  had  been  much  pleased  before, 
in  attending  one  of  their  dances,  at  the  genuine  inde- 
pendence and  politeness  of  their  conduct.  They  were 
willing  to  dance  their  Highland  flings  and  strathspeys, 
for  our  amusement,  and  did  it  as  naturally  and  as 
freely  as  they  would  have  offered  the  stranger  the  best 
chair. 


LONDON.  183 

JOANNA    BAILLIE.  HOWITTS.  SMITH. 

I  have  mentioned  with  satisfaction  seeing  some  per- 
sons who  illustrated  the  past  dynasty  in  the  progress  of 
thought  here :  Wordsworth,  Dr.  Chalmers,  De  Quincey, 
Andrew  Combe.  With  a  still  higher  pleasure,  because 
to  one  of  my  own  sex,  whom  I  have  honored  almost 
above  any,  I  went  to  pay  my  court  to  Joanna  Baillie. 
I  found  on  her  brow,  not,  indeed,  a  coronal  of  gold, 
but  a  serenity  and  strength  undimmed  and  unbroken 
by  the  weight  of  more  than  fourscore  years,  or  by  the 
scanty  appreciation  which  her  thoughts  have  received. 
We  found  her  in  her  little  calm  retreat,  at  Hampstead, 
surrounded  by  marks  of  love  and  reverence  from  dis- 
tinguished and  excellent  friends.  Near  her  was  the 
sister,  older  than  herself,  yet  still  sprightly  and  full  of 
active  kindness,  whose  character  and  their  mutual  rela- 
tions she  has,  in  one  of  her  last  poems,  indicated  with 
such  a  happy  mixture  of  sagacity,  humor,  and  tender 
pathos,  and  with  so  absolute  a  truth  of  outline. 

Mary  and  William  Howitt  are  the  main  support  of  the 
People's  Journal.  I  saw  them  several  times  at  their 
cheerful  and  elegant  home.  In  Mary  Howitt,  I  found 
the  same  engaging  traits  of  character  we  are  led  to 
expect  from  her  books  for  children.  At  their  house,  I 
became  acquainted  with  Dr.  Southwood  Smith,  the  well- 
known  philanthropist.  He  is  at  present  engaged  in  the 
construction  of  good  tenements,  calculated  to  improve 
the  condition  of  the  working  people. 


184  EUROPE. 

TO   R.  W.  E. 

Paris,  Nov.  16,  1846. — I  meant  to  write  on  my  ar- 
rival in  London,  six  weeks  ago;  but  as  it  was  not  wnat 
is  technically  called  "  the  season,"  I  thought  I  had  best 
send  all  my  letters  of  introduction  at  once,  that  I  might 
glean  what  few  good  people  I  could.  But  more  than  I 
expected  were  in  town.  These  introduced  others,  and  in 
three  days  I  was  engaged  in  such  a  crowd  of  acquaint- 
ance, that  I  had  hardly  time  to  dress,  and  none  to  sleep, 
during  all  the  weeks  I  was  in  London. 

I  enjoyed  the  time  extremely.  I  find  myself  much  in 
my  element  in  European  society.  It  does  not,  indeed, 
come  up  to  my  ideal,  but  so  many  of  the  encumbrances 
are  cleared  away  that  used  to  weary  me  in  America, 
that  I  can  enjoy  a  freer  play  of  faculty,  and  feel,  if  not 
like  a  bird  in  the  air,  at  least  as  easy  as  a  fish  in  water. 

In  Edinburgh,  I  met  Dr.  Brown.  He  is  still  quite  a 
young  man,  but  with  a  high  ambition,  and,  I  should 
think,  commensurate  powers.  But  all  is  yet  in  the  bud 
with  him.  He  has  a  friend,  David  Scott,  a  painter,  full 
of  imagination,  and  very  earnest  in  his  views  of  art.  I 
had  some  pleasant  hours  with  them,  and  the  last  night 
which  they  and  I  passed  with  De  Quincey,  a  real  grand 
conversazione,  quite  in  the  Landor  style,  which  lasted, 
in  full  harmony,  some  hours. 

CARLYLE. 

Of  the  people  I  saw  in  London,  you  will  wish  me  to 
speak  first  of  the  Carlyles.  Mr.  C.  came  to  see  me  at 
once,  and  appointed  an  evening  to  be  passed  at  their 
house.  That  first  time,  I  was  delighted  with  him.  He 


CARLYLE.  185 

was  in  a  very  sweet  humor,  —  full  of  wit  and  pathos, 
without  being  overbearing  or  oppressive.  I  was  quite 
carried  away  with  the  rich  flow  of  his  discourse ;  and 
the  hearty,  noble  earnestness  of  his  personal  being 
brought  back  the  charm  which  once  was  upon  his  writ- 
ing, before  I  wearied  of  it.  I  admired  his  Scotch,  his 
way  of  singing  his  great  full  sentences,  so  that  each  one 
was  like  the  stanza  of  a  narrative  ballad.  He  let  me 
talk,  now  and  then,  enough  to  free  my  lungs  and  change 
my  position,  so  that  I  did  not  get  tired.  That  evening, 
he  talked  of  the  present  state  of  things  in  England,  giv- 
ing light,  witty  sketches  of  the  men  of  the  day,  fanatics 
and  others,  and  some  sweet,  homely  stories  he  told  of 
things  he  had  known  of  the  Scotch  peasantry.  Of  you 
he  spoke  with  hearty  kindness;  and  he  told,  with  beauti- 
ful feeling,  a  story  of  some  poor  farmer,  or  artisan,  in  the 
country,  who  on  Sunday  lays  aside  the  cark  and  care  of 
that  dirty  English  world,  and  sits  reading  the  Essays, 
and  looking  upon  the  sea. 

I  left  him  that  night,  intending  to  go  out  very  often  to 
their  house.  I  assure  you  there  never  was  anything  so 

witty  as  Carlyle's  description  of  .  It  was 

enough  to  kill  one  with  laughing.  I,  on  my  side,  con- 
tributed a  story  to  his  fund  of  anecdote  on  this  subject, 
and  it  was  fully  appreciated.  Carlyle  is  worth  a  thou- 
sand of  you  for  that ;  — he  is  not  ashamed  to  laugh,  when 
he  is  amused,  but  goes  on  in  a  cordial  human  fashion. 

The  second  time,  Mr.  C.  had  a  dinner-party,  at  which 
was  a  witty,  French,  flippant  sort  of  man,  author  of  a 
History  of  Philosophy,  and  now  writing  a  Life  of  Goethe, 
a  task  for  which  he  must  be  as  unfit  as  irreligion  and 
sparkling  shallowness  can  make  him.  But  he  told 
stories  admirably,  and  was  allowed  sometimes  to  inter- 

VOL.  n.  16* 


186  EUROPE. 

rupt  Carlyle  a  little,  of  which  one  was  glad,  for,  that 
night, he  was  in  his  more  acrid  mood;  and,  though  much 
more  brilliant  than  on  the  former  evening,  grew  weari- 
some to  me,  who  disclaimed  and  rejected  almost  every- 
thing he  said. 

For  a  couple  of  hours,  he  was  talking  about  poetry, 
and  the  whole  harangue  was  one  eloquent  proclamation 
of  the  defects  in  his  own  mind.  Tennyson  wrote  in 
verse  because  the  schoolmasters  had  taught  him  that  it 
was  great  to  do  so,  and  had  thus,  unfortunately,  been 
turned  from  the  true  path  for  a  man.  Burns  had,  in 
like  manner,  been  turned  from  his  vocation.  Shakspeare 
had  not  had  the  good  sense  to  see  that  it  would  have  been 
better  to  write  straight  on  in  prose ;  — and  such  nonsense, 
which,  though  amusing  enough  at  first,  he  ran  to  death 
after  a  while.  The  most  amusing  part  is  always  when 
he  comes  back  to  some  refrain,  as  in  the  French  Revolu- 
tion of  the  sea-green.  In  this  instance,  it  was  Petrarch 
and  Laura,  the  last  word  pronounced  with  his  ineffable 
sarcasm  of  drawl.  Although  he  said  this  over  fifty 
times,  I  could  not  ever  help  laughing  when  Laura 
would  come, — Carlyle  running  his  chin  out,  when  he 
spoke  it,  and  his  eyes  glancing  till  they  looked  like  the 
eyes  and  beak  of  a  bird  of  prey.  Poor  Laura !  Lucky 
for  her  that  her  poet  had  already  got  her  safely  canon- 
ized beyond  the  reach  of  this  Teufelsdrockh  vulture. 

The  worst  of  hearing  Carlyle  is  that  you  cannot 
interrupt  him.  I  understand  the  habit  and  power  of 
haranguing  have  increased  very  much  upon  him,  so 
that  you  are  a  perfect  prisoner  when  he  has  once  got 
hold  of  you.  To  interrupt  him  is  a  physical  impossi- 
bility. If  you  get  a  chance  to  remonstrate  for  a  moment, 
he  raises  his  voice  and  bears  you  down.  True,  he  does 


CARLYLE.  187 

you  no  injustice,  and,  with  his  admirable  penetration, 
sees  the  disclaimer  in  your  mind,  so  that  you  are  not 
morally  delinquent;  but  it  is  not  pleasant  to  be  unable  to 
utter  it.  The  latter  part  of  the  evening,  however,  he 
paid  us  for  this,  by  a  series  of  sketches,  in  his  finest 
style  of  railing  and  raillery,  of  modern  French  literature, 
not  one  of  them,  perhaps,  perfectly  just,  but  all  drawn 
with  the  finest,  boldest  strokes,  and,  from  his  point  of 
view,  masterly.  All  were  depreciating,  except  that  of 
Beranger.  Of  him  he  spoke  with  perfect  justice,  because 
with  hearty  sympathy. 

I  had,  afterward,  some  talk  with  Mrs.  C.,  whom 
hitherto  I  had  only  seen,  for  who  can  speak  while  her 
husband  is  there  ?  I  like  her  very  much ;  —  she  is  full 
of  grace,  sweetness,  and  talent.  Her  eyes  are  sad  and 
charming.  *  *  * 

After  this,  they  went  to  stay  at  Lord  Ashburton's,  and 
I  only  saw  them  once  more,  when  they  came  to  pass  an 
evening  with  us.  Unluckily,  Mazzini  was  with  us, 
whose  society,  when  he  was  there  alone,  I  enjoyed  more 
than  any.  He  is  a  beauteous  and  pure  music;  also,  he 
is  a  dear  friend  of  Mrs.  C.;  but  his  being  there  gave  the 
conversation  a  turn  to  "progress"  and  ideal  subjects,  - 
and  C.  was  fluent  in  invectives  on  all  our  "rose-water 
imbecilities."  We  all  felt  distant  from  him,  and  Maz- 
zini, after  some  vain  efforts  to  remonstrate,  became  very 
sad.  Mrs.  C.  said  to  me,  "These  are  but  opinions  to 
Carlyle;  but  to  Mazzini,  who  has  given  his  all,  and 
helped  bring  his  friends  to  the  scaffold,  in  pursuit  of 
such  subjects,  it  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death." 

All  Carlyle's  talk,  that  evening,  was  a  defence  of  mere 
force,  —  success  the  test  of  right ;  —  if  people  would  not 
behave  well,  put  collars  round  their  necks;  —  find  a 


188  EUROPE. 

hero,  and  let  them  be  his  slaves,  &c.  It  was  very- 
Titanic,  and  anti-celestial.  I  wish  the  last  evening  had 
been  more  melodious.  However,  I  bid  Carlyle  farewell 
with  feelings  of  the  warmest  friendship  and  admiration. 
We  cannot  feel  otherwise  to  a  great  and  noble  nature, 
whether  it  harmonize  with  our  own  or  not.  I  never 
appreciated  the  work  he  has  done  for  his  age  till  I  saw 
England.  I  could  not.  You  must  stand  in  the  shadow 
of  that  mountain  of  shams,  to  know  how  hard  it  is  to 
cast  light  across  it. 

Honor  to  Carlyle!  Hock!  Although  in  the  wine 
with  which  we  drink  this  health,  I,  for  one,  must  mingle 
the  despised  "  rose-water." 

And  now,  having  to  your  eye  shown  the  defects  of 
my  own  mind,  in  the  sketch  of  another,  I  will  pass  on 
more  lowly,  —  more  willing  to  be  imperfect,  —  since 
Fate  permits  such  noble  creatures,  after  all,  to  be  only 
this  or  that.  It  is  much  if  one  is  not  only  a  crow  or 
magpie ;  —  Carlyle  is  only  a  lion.  Some  time  we  may, 
all  in  full,  be  intelligent  and  humanly  fair. 

CARLYLE,    AGAIN. 

Paris,  Dec.,  1846.  —  Accustomed  to  the  infinite  wit 
and  exuberant  richness  of  his  writings,  his  talk  is  still 
an  amazement  and  a  splendor  scarcely  to  be  faced  with 
steady  eyes.  He  does  not  converse ;  —  only  harangues. 
It  is  the  usual  misfortune  of  such  marked  men,  — happily 
not  one  invariable  or  inevitable,  —  that  they  cannot 
allow  other  minds  room  to  breathe,  and  show  themselves 
in  their  atmosphere,  and  thus  miss  the  refreshment  and 
instruction  which  the  greatest  never  cease  to  need  from 
the  experience  of  the  humblest.  Carlyle  allows  no  one 


CARLYLE.  189 

a  chance,  but  bears  down  all  opposition,  not  only  by  his 
wit  and  onset  of  words,  resistless  in  their  sharpness  as  so 
many  bayonets,  but  by  actual  physical  superiority,  — 
raising  his  voice,  and  rushing  on  his  opponent  with  a 
torrent  of  sound.  This  is  not  in  the  least  from  unwilling- 
ness to  allow  freedom  to  others.  On  the  contrary,  no 
man  would  more  enjoy  a  manly  resistance  to  his  thought. 
But  it  is  the  habit  of  a  mind  accustomed  to  follow  out 
its  own  impulse,  as  the  hawk  its  prey,  and  which  knows 
not  how  to  stop  in  the  chase.  Carlyle,  indeed,  is  arro- 
gant and  overbearing ;  but  in  his  arrogance  there  is  no 
littleness,  —  no  self-love.  It  is  the  heroic  arrogance  of 
some  old  Scandinavian  conqueror;  —  it  is  his  nature, 
and  the  untamable  energy  that  has  given  him  power 
to  crush  the  dragons.  You  do  not  love  him,  perhaps, 
nor  revere;  and  perhaps,  also,  he  would  only  laugh  at 
you  if  you  did;  but  you  like  him  heartily,  and  like 
to  see  him  the  powerful  smith,  the  Siegfried,  melting 
all  the  old  iron  in  his  furnace  till  it  glows  to  a  sunset 
red,  and  burns  you,  if  you  senselessly  go  too  near.  He 
seems,  to  me,  quite  isolated,  —  lonely  as  the  desert,  — 
yet  never  was  a  man  more  fitted  to  prize  a  man,  could  he 
find  one  to  match  his  mood.  He  finds  them,  but  only  in 
the  past.  He  sings,  rather  than  talks.  He  pours  upon 
you  a  kind  of  satirical,  heroical,  critical  poem,  with 
regular  cadences,  and  generally,  near  the  beginning, 
hits  upon  some  singular  epithet,  which  serves  as  a  refrain 
when  his  song  is  full,  or  with  which,  as  with  a  knitting 
needle,  he  catches  up  the  stitches,  if  he  has  chanced, 
now  and  then,  to  let  fall  a  row.  For  the  higher  kinds 
of  poetry  he  has  no  sense,  and  his  talk  on  that  subject  is 
delightfully  and  gorgeously  absurd.  He  sometimes  stops 
a  minute  to  laugh  at  it  himself,  then  begins  anew  with 


190  EUROPE. 

fresh  vigor ;  for  all  the  spirits  he  is  driving  before  him 
seem  to  him  as  Fata  Morgana,  ugly  masks,  in  fact,  if 
he  can  but  make  them  turn  about;  but  he  laughs  that 
they  seem  to  others  such  dainty  Ariels.  His  talk,  like 
his  books,  is  full  of  pictures;  his  critical  strokes  masterly. 
Allow  for  his  point  of  view,  and  his  survey  is  admirable. 
He  is  a  large  subject.  I  cannot  speak  more  or  wiselier 
of  him  now,  nor  needs  it ;  —  his  works  are  true,  to  blame 
and  praise  him,  —  the  Siegfried  of  England,  —  great  and 
powerful,  if  not  quite  invulnerable,  and  of  a  might  rather 
to  destroy  evil,  than  legislate  for  good. 

Of  Dr.  Wilkinson  I  saw  a  good  deal,  and  found  him  a 
substantial  person,  —  a  sane,  strong,  and  well-exer- 
cised mind, — but  in  the  last  degree  unpoetical  in  its 
structure.  He  is  very  simple,  natural,  and  good ;  excel- 
lent to  see,  though  one  cannot  go  far  with  him ;  and  he 
would  be  worth  more  in  writing,  if  he  could  get  time  to 
write,  than  in  personal  intercourse.  He  may  yet  find 
time ;  — he  is  scarcely  more  than  thirty.  Dr.  W.  wished 
to  introduce  me  to  Mr.  Clissold,  but  I  had  not  time ;  shall 
find  it,  if  in  London  again.  Tennyson  was  not  in  town. 

Browning  has  just  married  Miss  Barrett,  and  gone  to 
Italy.  I  may  meet  them  there.  Bailey  is  helping  his 
father  with  a  newspaper !  His  wife  and  child  (Philip 
Festus  by  name)  came  to  see  me.  I  am  to  make  them 
a  visit  on  my  return.  Marston  I  saw  several  times,  and 
found  him  full  of  talent.  That  is  all  I  want  to  say  at 
present ;  —  he  is  a  delicate  nature,  that  can  only  be 
known  in  its  own  way  and  time.  I  went  to  see  his 
"Patrician's  Daughter."  It  is  an  admirable  play  for 
the  stage.  At  the  house  of  W.  J.  Fox,  I  saw  first  him- 
self, an  eloquent  man,  of  great  practical  ability,  then 
Cooper,  (of  the  "  Purgatory  of  Suicides,")  and  others. 


PARIS.  191 

My  poor  selection  of  miscellanies  has  been  courteously 
greeted  in  the  London  journals.  Openings  were  made 
for  me  to  write,  had  I  but  leisure  ;  it  is  for  that 
I  look  to  a  second  stay  in  London,  since  several  topics 
came  before  me  on  which  I  wished  to  write  and  publish 
there. 

I  became  acquainted  with  a  gentleman  who  is  intimate 
with  all  the  English  artists,  especially  Stanfield  and 
Turner,  but  was  only  able  to  go  to  his  house  once,  at  this 
time.  Pictures  I  found  but  little  time  for,  yet  enough  to 
feel  what  they  are  now  to  be  to  me.  I  was  only  at  the 
Dulwich  and  National  Galleries  and  Hampton  Court. 
Also,  have  seen  the  Vandykes,  at  Warwick ;  but  all  the 
precious  private  collections  I  was  obliged  to  leave  un- 
touched, except  one  of  Turner's,  to  which  I  gave  a  day. 
For  the  British  Museum,  1  had  only  one  day,  which  I 
spent  in  the  Greek  and  Egyptian  Rooms,  unable  even  to 
look  at  the -vast  collections  of  drawings,  &c.  But  if  I 
live  there  a  few  months,  I  shall  go  often.  O,  were  life 
but  longer,  and  my  strength  greater !  Ever  I  am  be-, 
wildered  by  the  riches  of  existence,  had  I  but  more  time 
to  open  the  oysters,  and  get  out  the  pearls.  Yet  some 
are  mine,  if  only  for  a  necklace  or  rosary. 


TO   HEK  MOTIIEK. 


Paris,  Dec.  26,  1846.  — In  Paris  I  have  been  obliged 
to  give  a  great  deal  of  time  to  French,  in  order  to  gain 
the  power  of  speaking,  without  which  I  might  as  use- 
fully be  in  a  well  as  here.  That  has  prevented  my  doing 


192  EUROPE. 

nearly  as  much  as  I  would.  Could  I  remain  six  months 
in  this  great  focus  of  civilized  life,  the  time  would  be  all 
too  short  for  my  desires  and  needs. 

My  Essay  on  American  Literature  has  been  translated 
into  French,  and  published  in  "La  Revue  Indepen- 
dante,"  one  of  the  leading  journals  of  Paris;  only,  with 
that  delight  at  manufacturing  names  for  which  the 
French  are  proverbial,  they  put,  instead  of  Margaret, 

Elizabeth.  Write  to  ,  that  aunt  Elizabeth  has 

appeared  unexpectedly  before  the  French  public  !  She 
will  not  enjoy  her  honors  long,  as  a  future  number,  which 
is  to  contain  a  notice  of  "Woman  in  the  Nineteenth 
Century,"  will  rectify  the  mistake. 

I  have  been  asked,  also,  to  remain  in  correspondence 
with  La  Revue  Independante,  after  my  return  to  the 
United  States,  which  will  be  very  pleasant  and  advan- 
tageous to  me. 

I  have  some  French  acquaintance,  and  begin  to  take 
pleasure  in  them,  now  that  we  can  hold  intercourse  more 
easily.  Among  others,  a  Madame  Pauline  Roland  I  find 
an  interesting  woman.  She  is  an  intimate  friend  of 
Beranger  and  of  Pierre  Leroux. 

We  occupy  a  charming  suite  of  apartments,  Hotel 
Rougement,  Boulevard  Poissoniere.  It  is  a  new  hotel, 
and  has  not  the  arched  gateways  and  gloomy  court-yard 
of  the  old  mansions.  My  room,  though  small,  is  very 
pretty,  with  the  thick,  flowered  carpet  and  marble  slabs ; 
the  French  clock,  with  Cupid,  of  course,  over  the  fire- 
place, in  which  burns  a  bright  little  wood  fire ;  the 
canopy  bedstead,  and  inevitable  large  mirror;  the  cur- 
tains, too,  are  thick  and  rich,  the  closet,  &c.,  excellent, 
the  attendance  good.  But  for  all  this,  one  pays  dear. 
We  do  not  find  that  one  can  live  pleasantly  at  Paris  for 


GEORGE   SAND.  193 

little  money ;   and  we  prefer  to  economize  by  a  briefer 
stay,  if  at  all. 


Paris,  Jan.  18,  1847,  and  Naples,  March  17,  1847.— 
You  wished  to  hear  of  George  Sand,  or,  as  they  say  in 
Paris,  "  Madame  Sand."  I  find  that  all  we  had  heard 
of  her  was  true  in  the  outline ;  I  had  supposed  it  might 
be  exaggerated.  She  had  every  reason  to  leave  her  hus- 
band,—  a  stupid,  brutal  man,  who  insulted  and  neglected 
her.  He  afterwards  gave  up  their  child  to  her  for  a  sum 
of  money.  But  the  love  for  which  she  left  him  lasted 
not  well,  and  she  has  had  a  series  of  lovers,  and  I  am 
told  has  one  now,  with  whom  she  lives  on  the  footing 
of  combined  means,  independent  friendship!  But  she 
takes  rank  in  society  like  a  man,  for  the  weight  of  her 
thoughts,  and  has  just  given  her  daughter  in  marriage. 
Her  son  is  a  grown-up  young  man,  an  artist.  Many 
women  visit  her,  and  esteem  it  an  honor.  Even  an 
American  here,  arid  with  the  feelings  of  our  country  on 

such  subjects,  Mrs. ,  thinks  of  her  with  high  esteem. 

She  has  broken  with  La  Mennais,  of  whom  she  was 
once  a  disciple. 

I  observed  to  Dr.  Francois,  who  is  an  intimate  of 
hers,  and  loves  and  admires  her,  that  it  did  not  seem 
a  good  sign  that  she  breaks  with  her  friends.  He  said 
it  was  not  so  with  her  early  friends;  that  she  has 
chosen  to  buy  a  chateau  in  the  region  where  she  passed 
her  childhood,  and  that  the  people  there  love  and  have 
always  loved  her  dearly.  She  is  now  at  the  chateau, 
and,  I  begin  to  fear,  will  not  come  to  town  before  I  go. 

VOL.  it.  17 


194  EUROPE. 

Since  I  came,  I  have  read  two  charming  stories  recently 
written  by  her.  Another  longer  one  she  has  just  sold  to 
La  Presse  for  fifteen  thousand  francs.  She  does  not  re- 
ceive nearly  as  much  for  her  writings  as  Balzac,  Dumas, 
or  Sue.  She  has  a  much  greater  influence  than  they, 
but  a  less  circulation. 

She  stays  at  the  chateau,  because  the  poor  peopl 
there  were  suffering  so  much,  and  she  could  help  them. 
She  has  subscribed  twenty  thousand  francs  for  their 
relief,  in  the  scarcity  of  the  winter.  It  is  a  great  deal  to 
earn  by  one's  pen :  a  novel  of  several  volumes  sold 
for  only  fifteen  thousand  francs,  as  I  mentioned  be- 
fore. *  *  * 

At  last,  however,  she  came ;  and  I  went  to  see  her  at 
her  house,  Place  d'Orleans.  I  found  it  a  handsome 
modern  residence.  She  had  not  answered  my  letter, 
written  about  a  week  before,  and  I  felt  a  little  anxious 
lest  she  should  not  receive  me ;  for  she  is  too  much  the 
mark  of  impertinent  curiosity,  as  well  as  too  busy,  to  be 
easily  accessible  to  strangers.  I  am  by  no  means  timid, 
but  I  have  suffered,  for  the  first  time  in  France,  some  of 
the  torments  of  mauvaise  honte,  enough  to  see  what  they 
must  be  to  many. 

It  is  the  custom  to  go  and  call  on  those  to  whom  you 
bring  letters,  and  push  yourself  upon  their  notice;  thus 
you  must  go  quite  ignorant  whether  they  are  disposed  to 
be  cordial.  My  name  is  always  murdered  by  the  foreign 
servants  who  announce  me.  I  speak  very  bad  French ; 
only  lately  have  I  had  sufficient  command  of  it  to  infuse 
some  of  my  natural  spirit  in  my  discourse.  This  has 
been  a  great  trial  to  me,  who  am  eloquent  and  free  in 
my  own  tongue,  to  be  forced  to  feel  my  thoughts  strug- 
gling in  vain  for  utterance. 


GEORGE    SAND.  195 

The  servant  who  admitted  me  was  in  the  picturesque 
costume  of  a  peasant,  and,  as  Madame  Sand  afterward 
told  me,  her  god-daughter,  whom  she  had  brought  from 
her  province.  She  announced  me  as  " Madame  Salere," 
and  returned  into  the  ante-room  to  tell  me.  "Madame 
says  she  does  not  know  you."  I  began  to  think  I  was 
doomed  to  a  rebuff,  among  the  crowd  who  deserve  it. 
However,  to  make  assurance  sure,  I  said,  "Ask  if  she 
has  not  received  a  letter  from  me."  As  I  spoke,  Madame 
S.  opened  the  door,  and  stood  looking  at  me  an  instant. 
Our  eyes  met.  I  never  shall  forget  her  look  at  that 
moment.  The  doorway  made  a  frame  for  her  figure; 
she  is  large,  but  well-formed.  She  was  dressed  in  a  robe 
of  dark  violet  silk,  with  a  black  mantle  on  her  shoulders, 
her  beautiful  hair  dressed  with  the  greatest  taste,  her 
whole  appearance  and  attitude,  in  its  simple  and  lady- 
like dignity,  presenting  an  almost  ludicrous  contrast  to 
the  vulgar  caricature  idea  of  George  Sand.  Her  face  is 
a  very  little  like  the  portraits,  but  much  finer ;  the  upper 
part  of  the  forehead  and  eyes  are  beautiful,  the  lower, 
strong  and  masculine,  expressive  of  a  hardy  temperament 
and  strong  passions,  but  not  in  the  least  coarse;  the  com- 
plexion olive,  and  the  air  of  the  whole  head  Spanish,  (as, 
indeed,  she  was  born  at  Madrid,  and  is  only  on  one  side 
of  French  blood.)  All  these  details  I  saw  at  a  glance; 
but  what  fixed  rny  attention  was  the  expression  of  good- 
ness, nobleness,  and  power,  that  pervaded  the  whole, — 
the  truly  human  heart  and  nature  that  shone  in  the  eyes. 
As  our  eyes  met,  she  said,  "  C'est  vous"  and  held  out 
her  hand.  I  took  it,  and  went  into  her  little  study ;  we 
sat  down  a  moment,  then  I  said.  lillme  fait  de  bien  de 
vous  voir"  and  I  am  sure  I  said  it  with  my  whole  heart, 
for  it  made  me  very  happy  to  see  such  a  woman,  so 


196  EUROPE. 

large  and  so  developed  a  character,  and  everything  that 
is  good  in  it  so  really  good.  I  loved,  shall  always  love 
her. 

She  looked  away,  and  said,  "Ah !  vous  m'avez  ecrit 
une  lettre  charmanle."  This  was  all  the  preliminary  of 
our  talk,  which  then  went  on  as  if  we  had  always  known 
one  another.  She  told  me,  before  I  went  away,  that  she 
was  going  that  very  day  to  write  to  me ;  that  when  the 
servant  announced  me  she  did  not  recognize  the  name, 
but  after  a  minute  it  struck  her  that  it  might  be  La  dame 
Americaine,  as  the  foreigners  very  commonly  call  me, 
for  they  find  my  name  hard  to  remember.  She  was  very 
much  pressed  for  time,  as  she  was  then  preparing  copy 
for  the  printer,  and,  having  just  returned,  there  were 
many  applications  to  see  her,  but  she  wanted  me  to  stay 
then,  saying,  "It  is  better  to  throw  things  aside,  and 
seize  the  present  moment."  I  staid  a  good  part  of  the 
day,  and  was  very  glad  afterwards,  for  I  did  not  see  her 
again  uninterrupted.  Another  day  I  was  there,  and  saw 
her  in  her  circle.  Her  daughter  and  another  lady  were 
present,  and  a  number  of  gentlemen.  Her  position  there 
was  of  an  intellectual  woman  and  good  friend,  —  the 
same  as  my  own  in  the  circle  of  my  acquaintance  as 
distinguished  from  my  intimates.  Her  daughter  is  just 
about  to  be  married.  It  is  said,  there  is  no  congeniality 
between  her  and  her  mother;  but  for  her  son  she  seems 
to  have  much  love,  and  he  loves  and  admires  her  ex- 
tremely. I  understand  he  has  a  good  and  free  character, 
without  conspicuous  talent. 

Her  way  of  talking  is  just  like  her  writing,  —  lively, 
picturesque,  with  an  undertone  of  deep  feeling,  and  the 
same  skill  in  striking  the  nail  on  the  head  every 
now  and  then  with  a  blow. 


GEORGE    SAND.  197 

We  did  not  talk  at  all  of  personal  or  private  mat- 
ters. I  saw,  as  one  sees  in  her  writings,  the  want  of 
an  independent,  interior  life,  but  I  did  not  feel  it  as  a 
fault,  there  is  so  much  in  her  of  her  kind.  I  heartily 
enjoyed  the  sense  of  so  rich,  so  prolific,  so  ardent  a 
genius.  I  liked  the  woman  in  her,  too,  very  much;  I 
never  liked  a  woman  better. 

For  the  rest  I  do  not  care  to  write  about  it  much,  for 
I  cannot,  in  the  room  and  time  I  have  to  spend,  express 
my  thoughts  as  I  would ;  but  as  near  as  I  can  express 

the  sum  total,  it  is  this.  S and  others  who  admire 

her,  are  anxious  to  make  a  fancy  picture  of  her,  and 
represent  her  as  a  Helena  (in  the  Seven  Chords  of  the 
Lyre) ;  all  whose  mistakes  are  the  fault  of  the  present 
state  of  society.  But  to  me  the  truth  seems  to  be  this. 
She  has  that  purity  in  her  soul,  for  she  knows  well  how 
to  love  and  prize  its  beauty ;  but  she  herself  is  quite  an- 
other sort  of  person.  She  needs  no  defence,  but  only  to 
be  understood,  for  she  has  bravely  acted  out  her  nature, 
and  always  with  good  intentions.  She  might  have 
loved  one  man  permanently,  if  she  could  have  found  one 
contemporary  with  her  who  could  interest  and  command 
her  throughout  her  range ;  but  there  was  hardly  a  pos- 
sibility of  that,  for  such  a  person.  Thus  she  has  natur- 
ally changed  the  objects  of  her  affection,  and  several 
times.  Also,  there  may  have  been  something  of  the 
Bacchante  in  her  life,  and  of  the  love  of  night  and  storm, 
and  the  free  raptures  amid  which  roamed  on  the  moun- 
tain-tops the  followers  of  Cybele,  the  great  goddess,  the 
great  mother.  But  she  was  never  coarse,  never  gross, 
and  I  am  sure  her  generous  heart  has  not  failed  to  draw 
some  rich  drops  from  every  kind  of  wine-press.  When 
she  has  done  with  an  intimacy,  she  likes  to  break  it  off 

VOL.    II.  17* 


198  EUROPE. 

suddenly,  and  this  has  happened  often,  both  with  men 
and  women.  Many  calumnies  upon  her  are  traceable 
to  this  cause. 

I  forgot  to  mention,  that,  while  talking,  she  does  smoke 
all  the  time  her  little  cigarette.  This  is  now  a  common 
practice  among  ladies  abroad,  but  I  believe  originated 
with  her. 

For  the  rest,  she  holds  her  place  in  the  literary  and 
social  world  of  France  like  a  man,  and  seems  full  of 
energy  and  courage  in  it.  I  suppose  she  has  suffered 
much,  but  she  has  also  enjoyed  and  done  much,  and  her 
expression  is  one  of  calmness  and  happiness.  I  was 
sorry  to  see  her  exploitant  her  talent  so  carelessly. 
She  does  too  much,  and  this  cannot  last  forever;  but 
"Teverino  "  and  the  "  Mare  au  Diable,"  which  she  has 
lately  published,  are  as  original,  as  masterly  in  truth, 
and  as  free  in  invention,  as  anything  she  has  done. 

Afterwards  I  saw  Chopin,  not  with  her,  although  he 
lives  with  her,  and  has  for  the  last  twelve  years.  I 
went  to  see  him  in  his  room  with  one  of  his  friends.  He 
is  always  ill,  and  as  frail  as  a  snow-drop,  but  an  exquis- 
ite genius.  He  played  to  me,  and  I  liked  his  talking 
scarcely  less.  Madame  S.  loved  Liszt  before  him ;  she 
has  thus  been  intimate  with  the  two  opposite  sides  of 
the  musical  world.  Mickiewicz  says,  "  Chopin  talks 
with  spirit,  and  gives  us  the  Ariel  view  of  the  universe. 
Liszt  is  the  eloquent  tribune  to  the  world  of  men,  a  little 
vulgar  and  showy  certainly,  but  I  like  the  tribune  best." 
It  is  said  here,  that  Madame  S.  has  long  had  only  a 
friendship  for  Chopin,  who,  perhaps,  on  his  side  prefers 
to  be  a  lover,  and  a  jealous  lover;  but  she  does  not  leave 
him,  because  he  needs  her  care  so  much,  when  sick  and 
suffering.  About  all  this,  I  do  not  know;  you  cannot 


RACHEL.  199 

know  much  about  anything  in  France,  except  what  you 
see  with  your  two  eyes.  Lying  is  ingrained  in  "la 
grande  nation,"  as  they  so  plainly  show  no  less  in  litera- 
ture than  life. 


In  France  the  theatre  is  living;  you  see  something 
really  good,  and  good  throughout.  Not  one  touch  of 
that  stage-strut  and  vulgar  bombast  of  tone,  which  the 
English  actor  fancies  indispensable  to  scenic  illusion,  is 
tolerated  here.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  saw  some- 
thing represented  in  a  style  uniformly  good,  and  should 
have  found  sufficient  proof,  if  I  had  needed  any,  that  all 
men  will  prefer  what  is  good  to  what  is  bad,  if  only  a 
fair  opportunity  for  choice  be  allowed.  When  I  came 
here,  my  first  thought  was  to  go  and  see  Mademoiselle 
Rachel.  I  was  sure  that  in  her  I  should  find  a  true 
genius.  I  went  to  see  her  seven  or  eight  times,  always 
in  parts  that  required  great  force  of  soul,  and  purity  of 
taste,  even  to  conceive  them,  and  only  once  had  reason 
to  find  fault  with  her.  On  one  single  occasion,  I  saw 
her  violate  the  harmony  of  the  character,  to  produce 
effect  at  a  particular  moment;  but,  almost  invariably,  I 
found  her  a  true  artist,  worthy  Greece,  and  worthy  at 
many  moments  to  have  her  conceptions  immortalized  in 
marble. 

Her  range  even  in  high  tragedy  is  limited.  She  can 
only  express  the  darker  passions,  and  grief  in  its  most 
desolate  aspects.  Nature  has  not  gifted  her  with  those 
softer  and  more  flowery  attributes,  that  lend  to  pathos 
its  utmost  tenderness.  She  does  not  melt  to  tears,  or 
calm  or  devate  the  heart  by  the  presence  of  that  tragic 


200  EUROPE. 

beauty  that  needs  all  the  assaults  of  fate  to  make  it 
show  its  immortal  sweetness.  Her  noblest  aspect  is 
when  sometimes  she  expresses  truth  in  some  severe 
shape,  and  rises,  simple  and  austere,  above  the  mixed 
elements  around  her.  On  the  dark  side,  she  is  very 
great  in  hatred  and  revenge.  I  admired  her  more  in 
Phedre  than  in  any  other  part  in  which  I  saw  her ;  the 
guilty  love  inspired  by  the  hatred  of  a  goddess  was 
expressed,  in  all  its  symptoms,  with  a  force  and  terrible 
naturalness,  that  almost  suffocated  the  beholder.  After 
she  had  taken  the  poison,  the  exhaustion  and  paralysis 
of  the  system,  —  the  sad,  cold,  calm  submission  to  Fate, 
—  were  still  more  grand. 

I  had  heard  so  much  about  the  power  of  her  eye  in 
one  fixed  look,  and  the  expression  she  could  concentrate 
in  a  single  word,  that  the  utmost  results  could  only  sat- 
isfy my  expectations.  It  is,  indeed,  something  magnifi- 
cent to  see  the  dark  cloud  give  out  such  sparks,  each  one 
fit  to  deal  a  separate  death ;  but  it  was  not  that  I  ad- 
mired most  in  her.  It  was  the  grandeur,  truth,  and 
depth  of  her  conception  of  each  part,  and  the  sustained 
purity  with  which  she  represented  it. 

The  French  language  from  her  lips  is  a  divine  dialect; 
it  is  stripped  of  its  national  and  personal  peculiarities, 
and  becomes  what  any  language  must,  moulded  by  such 
a  genius,  the  pure  music  of  the  heart  and  soul.  I  never 
could  remember  her  tone  in  speaking  any  word;  it  was 
too  perfect;  you  had  received  the  thought  quite  direct. 
Yet,  had  I  never  heard  her  speak  a  word,  my  mind 
would  be  filled  by  her  attitudes.  Nothing  more  grace- 
ful can  be  conceived,  nor  could  the  genius  of  sculpture 
surpass  her  management  of  the  antique  drapery. 

She  has  no  beauty,  except  in  the  intellectual  severity 


PARIS.  201 

of  her  outline,  and  she  bears  marks  of  race,  that  will  grow 
stronger  every  year,  and  make  her  ugly  at  last.  Still 
it  will  be  a  grandiose,  gypsy,  or  rather  Sibylline  ugliness, 
well  adapted  to  the  expression  of  some  tragic  parts. 
Only  it  seems  as  if  she  could  not  live  long;  she  expends 
force  enough  upon  a  part  to  furnish  out  a  dozen  common 
lives. 

TO  E.  w.  E. 

Paris,  Jan.  18,  1847. —  I  can  hardly  tell  you  what  a 
fever  consumes  me,  from  sense  of  the  brevity  of  my 
time  and  opportunity.  Here  I  cannot  sleep  at  night, 
because  I  have  been  able  to  do  so  little  in  the  day. 
Constantly  I  try  to  calm  my  mind  into  content  with 
small  achievements,  but  it  is  difficult.  You  will  say,  it 
is  not  so  mightily  worth  knowing,  after  all,  this  picture 
and  natural  history  of  Europe.  Yery  true;  but  I  am 
so  constituted  that  it  pains  me  to  come  away,  having 
touched  only  the  glass  over  the  picture. 

I  am  assiduous  daily  at  the  Academy  lectures,  picture 
galleries,  Chamber  of  Deputies, — last  week,  at  the 
court  and  court  ball.  So  far  as  my  previous  prepara- 
tion enabled  me,  I  get  something  from  all  these  brilliant 
shows, —  thoughts,  images,  fresh  impulse.  But  I  need,  to 
initiate  me  into  various  little  secrets  of  the  place  and 
time, — necessary  for  me  to  look  at  things  to  my  satisfac- 
tion,—  some  friend,  such  as  I  do  not  find  here.  My  steps 
have  not  been  fortunate  in  Paris,  as  they  were  in  Eng- 
land. No  doubt,  the  person  exists  here,  whose  aid  I 
want;  indeed,  I  feel  that  it  is  so ;  but  we  do  not  meet, 
and  the  time  draws  near  for  me  to  depart. 

French  people  I  find  slippery,  as  they  do  not  know 


202  EUROPE. 

exactly  what  to  make  of  me,  the  rather  as  I  have  not  the 
command  of  their  language.  /  see  them,  their  brilliancy, 
grace,  and  variety,  the  thousand  slight  refinements  of 
their  speech  and  manner,  but  cannot  meet  them  in  their 
way.  My  French  teacher  says,  I  speak  and  act  like  an 
Italian,  and  I  hope,  in  Italy,  I  shall  find  myself  more  at 
home. 

I  had,  the  other  day,  the  luck  to  be  introduced  to 
Beranger,  who  is  the  only  person  beside  George  Sand  I 
cared  very  particularly  to  see  here.  I  went  to  call  on 
La  Mennais,  to  whom  I  had  a  letter.  I  found  him  in  a 
little  study ;  his  secretary  was  writing  in  a  large  room 
through  which  I  passed.  With  him  was  a  somewhat 
citizen-looking,  but  vivacious  elderly  man,  whom  I  was, 
at  first,  sorry  to  see,  having  wished  for  half  an  hour's 
undisturbed  visit  to  the  Apostle  of  Democracy.  But 
those  feelings  were  quickly  displaced  by  joy,  when  he 
named  to  me  the  great  national  lyrist  of  France,  the 
great  Beranger.  I  had  not  expected  to  see  him  at  all, 
for  he  is  not  to  be  seen  in  any  show  place ;  he  lives  in 
the  hearts  of  the  people,  and  needs  no  homage  from 
their  eyes.  I  was  very  happy,  in  that  little  study,  in 
the  presence  of  these  two  men,  whose  influence  has 
been  so  real  and  so  great.  Beranger  has  been  much  to 
me,  —  his  wit,  his  pathos,  and  exquisite  lyric  grace.  I 
have  not  received  influence  from  La  Mennais,  but  I  see 
well  what  he  has  been,  and  is,  to  Europe. 


TO   LA   MENNAIS. 

Monsieur :  — 

As  my  visit  to  you  was  cut  short  before  I  was  quite 
satisfied,  it  was  my  intention  to  seek  you  again  imme- 


PARIS.  203 

diately ;  although  I  felt  some  scruples  at  occupying  your 
valuable  time,  when  I  express  myself  so  imperfectly  in 
your  language.  But  I  have  been  almost  constantly  ill 
since,  and  now  am  not  sure  of  finding  time  to  pay  you 
my  respects  before  leaving  Paris  for  Italy.  In  case  this 
should  be  impossible,  I  take  the  liberty  to  write,  and  to 
present  you  two  little  volumes  of  mine.  It  is  only  as  a 
tribute  of  respect.  I  regret  that  they  do  not  contain 
some  pieces  of  mine  which  might  be  more  interesting 
to  you,  as  illustrative  of  the  state  of  affairs  in  our  coun- 
try. Some  such  will  find  their  place  in  subsequent 
numbers.  These,  I  hope,  you  will,  if  you  do  not  read 
them,  accept  kindly  as  a  salutation  from  our  hemisphere. 
Many  there  delight  to  know  you  as  a  great  apostle  of 
the  ideas  which  are  to  be  our  life,  if  Heaven  intends  us 
a  great  and  permanent  life.  I  count  myself  happy  in 
having  seen  you,  and  in  finding  with  you  Beranger,  the 
genuine  poet,  the  genuine  man  of  France.  I  have  felt 
all  the  enchantment  of  the  lyre  of  Beranger;  have  paid 
my  warmest  homage  to  the  truth  and  wisdom  adorned 
with  such  charms,  such  wit  arid  pathos.  It  was  a  great 
pleasure  to  see  himself.  If  your  leisure  permits,  Monsieur, 
I  will  ask  a  few  lines  in  reply.  I  should  like  to  keep 
some  words  from  your  hand,  in  case  I  should  not  look 
upon  you  more  here  below;  and  am  always,  with  grati- 
tude for  the  light  you  have  shed  on  so  many  darkened 
spirits, 

Yours,  most  respectfully, 

MARGARET  FULLER. 

Paris,  Jan.,  1847.  —  I  missed  hearing  M.  Guizot,  (I 
am  sorry  for  it,)  in  his  speech  on  the  Montpensier  mar- 
riage. I  saw  the  little  Duchess,  the  innocent  or  ignorant 


204 


topic  of  all  this  disturbance,  when  presented  at  court. 
She  went  round  the  circle  on  the  arm  of  the  queen. 
Though  only  fourteen,  she  looks  twenty,  but  has  some- 
thing fresh,  engaging,  and  girlish  about  her. 

I  attended  not  only  at  the  presentation,  but  at  the  ball 
given  at  the  Tuileries  directly  after.  These  are  fine 
shows,  as  the  suite  of  apartments  is  very  handsome, 
brilliantly  lighted,  —  the  French  ladies  surpassing  all 
others  in  the  art  of  dress ;  indeed,  it  gave  me  much 
pleasure  to  see  them.  Certainly  there  are  many  ugly 
ones ;  but  they  are  so  well  dressed,  and  have  such  an  air 
of  graceful  vivacity,  that  the  general  effect  was  of  a 
flower-garden.  As  often  happens,  several  American 
women  were  among  the  most  distinguished  for  positive 
beauty;  one  from  Philadelphia,  who  is  by  many  persons 
considered  the  prettiest  ornament  of  the  dress  circle  at 
the  Italian  opera,  was  especially  marked  by  the  atten- 
tion of  the  king.  However,  these  ladies,  even  if  here  a 
long  time,  do  not  attain  the  air  and  manner  of  French 
women.  The  magnetic  fluid  that  envelops  them  is  less 
brilliant  and  exhilarating  in  its  attractions. 

Among  the  crowd  wandered  Leverrier,  in  the  costume 
of  Academician,  looking  as  if  he  had  lost,  not.  found,  his 
planet.  French  savants  are  more  generally  men  of  the 
world,  and  even  men  of  fashion,  than  those  of  other  cli- 
mates ;  but,  in  his  case,  he  seemed  not  to  find  it  easy  to 
exchange  the  music  of  the  spheres  for  the  music  of 
fiddles. 

Speaking  of  Leverrier  leads  to  another  of  my  disap- 
pointments. I  went  to  the  Sorbonne  to  hear  him  lec- 
ture, not  dreaming  that  the  old  pedantic  and  theological 
character  of  those  halls  was  strictly  kept  up  in  these 
days  of  light.  An  old  guardian  of  the  inner  temple 


PARIS.  205 

seeing  me  approach,  had  his  speech  all  ready,  and,  man- 
ning the  entrance,  said,  with  a  disdainful  aii^  before  we 
had  time  to  utter  a  word,  "  Monsieur  may  enter  if  he 
pleases,  but  madame  must  remain  here"  (i.e.,  in  the 
court-yard).  After  some  exclamations  of  surprise,  I 
found  an  alternative  in  the  Hotel  de  Clugny,  where  I 
passed  an  hour  very  delightfully,  while  waiting  for  my 
companion. 

I  was  more  fortunate  in  hearing  Arago,  and  he  justi- 
fied all  my  expectations.  Clear,  rapid,  full,  and  equal, 
his  discourse  is  worthy  its  celebrity,  and  I  felt  -repaid  for 
the  four  hours  one  is  obliged  to  spend  in  going,  in 
waiting,  and  in  hearing,  for  the  lecture  begins  at  half 
past  one.  and  you  must  be  there  before  twelve  to  get  a 
seat,  so  constant  and  animated  is  his  popularity. 

I  was  present  on  one  good  occasion,  at  the  Academy, — 
the  day  that  M.  Remusat  was  received  there,  in  the  place 
of  Royer  Collard.  I  looked  down,  from  one  of  the  trib- 
unes, upon  the  flower  of  the  celebrities  of  France ;  that 
is  to  say,  of  the  celebrities  which  are  authentic,  comme 
il  faut.  Among  them  were  many  marked  faces,  many 
fine  heads;  but,  in  reading  the  works  of  poets,  we 
always  fancy  them  about  the  age  of  Apollo  himself, 
and  I  found  with  pain  some  of  my  favorites  quite  old, 
and  very  unlike  the  company  on  Parnassus,  as  repre- 
sented by  Raphael.  Some,  however,  were  venerable, 
even  noble  to  behold. 

The  poorer  classes  have  suffered  from  hunger  this 
winter.  All  signs  of  this  are  kept  out  of  sight  in  Paris. 
A  pamphlet  called  "  The  Voice  of  Famine,"  stating 
facts,  though  in  a  tone  of  vulgar  and  exaggerated 
declamation,  was  suppressed  as  soon  as  published. 
While  Louis  Philippe  lives,  the  gases  may  not  burst  up 

VOL.   II.  18 


206  EUROPE. 


to  flame,  but  the  need  of  radical  measures  of  reform  is 
strongly  fe^t  in  France;  and  the  time  will  come,  before 
long,  when  such  will  be  imperatively  demanded. 

FOURIER. 

The  doctrines  of  Fourier  are  making  progress,  and 
wherever  they  spread,  the  necessity  of  some  practical 
application  of  the  precepts  of  Christ,  in  lieu  of  the 
mummeries  of  a  worn-out  ritual,  cannot  fail  to  be  felt. 
The  more  I  see  of  the  terrible  ills  which  infest  the  body 
politic  of  Europe,  the  more  indignation  I  feel  at  the  self- 
ishness or  stupidity  of  those  in  my  own  country  who 
oppose  an  examination  of  these  subjects,  — such  as  is 
animated  by  the  hope  of  prevention.  Educated  in  an 
age  of  gross  materialism,  Fourier  is  tainted  by  its  faults ; 
in  attempts  to  reorganize  society,  he  commits  the  error 
of  making  soul  the  result  of  health  of  body,  instead  of 
body  the  clothing  of  soul ;  but  his  heart  was  that  of  a 
genuine  lover  of  his  kind,  of  a  philanthropist  in  the 
sense  of  Jesus;  his  views  are  large  and  noble;  his  life 
was  one  of  devout  study  on  these  subjects,  and  I  should 
pity  the  person  who,  after  the  briefest  sojourn  in  Man- 
chester and  Lyons,  the  most  superficial  acquaintance 
with  the  population  of  London  and  Paris,  could  seek 
to  hinder  a  study  of  his  thoughts,  or  be  wanting  in 
reverence  for  his  purposes. 

ROUSSEAU. 

To  the  actually  so-called  Chamber  of  Deputies,  I  was 
indebted  for  a  sight  of  the  manuscripts  of  Rousseau 
treasured  in  their  library.  I  saw  them  and  touched 


PARIS.  207 

them, — those  manuscripts  just  as  he  has  celebrated 
them,  written  on  the  fine  white  paper,  tied  with  ribbon. 
Yellow  and  faded  age  has  made  them,  yet  at  their  touch 
I  seemed  to  feel  the  fire  of  youth,  immortally  glowing. 
more  and  more  expansive,  with  which  his  soul  has  per- 
vaded this  century.  He  was  the  precursor  of  all  we 
most  prize.  True,  his  blood  was  mixed  with  madness, 
and  the  course  of  his  actual  life  made  some  detours 
tnrongh  villanous  places ;  but  his  spirit  was  intimate 
with  the  fundamental  truths  of  human  nature,  and 
fraught  with  prophecy.  There  is  none  who  has  given 
birth  to  more  life  for  this  age ;  his  gifts  are  yet  untold ; 
they  are  too  present  with  us;  but  he  who  thinks  really 
must  often  think  with  Rousseau,  and  learn  him  ever 
more  and  more.  Such  is  the  method  of  genius,  —  to 
ripen  fruit  for  the  crowd  by  those  rays  of  whose  heat 
they  complain. 

TO  R.  w.  E. 

Naples,  March  15, 1847.  —  Mickiewicz,  the  Polish  poet, 
first  introduced  the  Essays  to  acquaintance  in  Paris.  I 
did  not  meet  him  anywhere,  and,  as  I  heard  a  great  deal 
of  him  which  charmed  me,  I  sent  him  your  poems,  and 
asked  him  to  come  and  see  me.  He  came,  and  I  found 
in  him  the  man  I  had  long  wished  to  see,  with  the  intel- 
lect and  passions  in  due  proportion  for  a  full  and  healthy 
human  being,  with  a  soul  constantly  inspiring.  Unhap- 
pily, it  was  a  very  short  time  before  I  came  away. 
How  much  time  had  I  wasted  on  others  which  I  might 
have  given  to  this  real  and  important  relation. 

After  hearing  music  from  Chopin  and  Neukomm,  I 
quitted  Paris  on  the  25th  February,  and  came,  via 


208  EUROPE. 

Chalons,  Lyons,  Avignon,  (where  I  waded  through 
melting  snow  to  Laura's  tomb,)  Aries,  to  Marseilles; 
thence,  by  steamer,  to  Genoa,  Leghorn,  and  Pisa.  Seen 
through  a  cutting  wind,  the  marble  palaces,  the  gardens, 
the  magnificent  water-view  of  Genoa,  failed  to  charm. 
Only  at  Naples  have  I  found  my  Italy.  Between  Leg- 
horn and  Naples,  our  boat  was  run  into  by  another,  and 
we  only  just  escaped  being  drowned. 

ROME. 

Rome,  May,  1847.  —  Of  the  fragments  of  the  great 
time,  I  have  now  seen  nearly  all  that  are  treasured  up 
here.  I  have  as  yet  nothing  of  consequence  to  say  of 
them.  Others  have  often  given  good  hints  as  to  how 
they  look.  As  to  what  they  are,  it  can  only  be  known 
by  approximating  to  the  state  of  soul  out  of  which  they 
grew.  They  are  many  and  precious ;  yet  is  there  not 
so  much  of  high  excellence  as  I  looked  for.  They  will 
not  float  the  heart  on  a  boundless  sea  of  feeling,  like  the 
starry  night  on  our  Western  Prairies.  Yet  I  love  much 
to  see  the  galleries  of  marbles,  even  where  there  are  not 
many  separately  admirable,  amid  the  cypresses  and 
ilexes  of  Roman  villas;  and  a  picture  that  is  good  at 
all,  looks  best  in  one  of  these  old  palaces.  I  have  heard 
owls  hoot  in  the  Colosseum  by  moonlight,  and  they  spoke 
more  to  the  purpose  than  I  ever  heard  any  other  voice 
on  that  subject.  I  have  seen  all  the  pomps  of  Holy 
Week  in  St.  Peter's,  and  found  them  less  imposing  than 
an  habitual  acquaintance  with  the  church  itself,  with 
processions  of  monks  and  nuns  stealing  in,  now  and 
then,  or  the  swell  of  vespers  from  some  side  chapel. 
The  ceremonies  of  the  church  have  been  numerous  and 


ROME.  209 

splendid,  during  our  stay,  and  they  borrow  unusual 
interest  from  the  love  and  expectation  inspired  by  the 
present  pontiff.  He  is  a  man  of  noble  and  good  aspect, 
who  has  set  his  heart  on  doing  something  solid  for  the 
benefit  of  man.  A  week  or  two  ago,  the  Cardinal  Sec- 
retary published  a  circular,  inviting  the  departments  to 
measures  which  would  give  the  people  a  sort  of  repre- 
sentative council.  Nothing  could  seem  more  limited 
than  this  improvement,  but  it  was  a  great  measure  for 
Rome.  At  night,  the  Corso  was  illuminated,  and  many 
thousands  passed  through  it  in  a  torch-bearing  proces- 
sion, on  their  way  to  the  Quirinal,  to  thank  the  Pope, 
upbearing  a  banner  on  which  the  edict  was  printed. 

TO  w.  H.  c. 

Rome,  May  7,  1847.  — I  write  not  to  you  about  these 
countries,  of  the  famous  people  I  see,  of  magnificent 
shows  and  places.  All  these  things  are  only  to  me  an 
illuminated  margin  on  the  text  of  my  inward  life.  Ear- 
lier, they  would  have  been  more.  Art  is  not  important  to 
me  now.  I  like  only  what  little  I  find  that  is  transcend- 
antly  good,  and  even  with  that  feel  very  familiar  and 
calm.  I  take  interest  in  the  state  of  the  people,  their 
manners,  the  state  of  the  race  in  them.  I  see  the  future 
dawning;  it  is  in  important  aspects  Fourier's  future. 
But  I  like  no  Fourierites ;  they  are  terribly  wearisome 
here  in  Europe ;  the  tide  of  things  does  not  wash  through 
them  as  violently  as  with  us,  and  they  have  time  to  run 
in  the  tread-mill  of  system.  Still,  they  serve  this  great 
future  which  I  shall  not  live  to  see.  I  must  be  bom 
again. 

VOL.  II.  18* 


210  EUROPE. 


TO    R.  W.  E. 

Florence,  June  20,  1847.  —  I  have  just  come  hither 
from  Rome.  Every  minute,  day  and  night,  there  is 
something  to  be  seen  or  done  at  Rome,  which  we  can- 
not bear  to  lose.  We  lived  on  the  Corso,  and  all  night 
long,  after  the  weather  became  fine,  there  was  conversa- 
tion or  music  before  rny  window.  I  never  seemed  really 
to  sleep  while  there,  and  now,  at  Florence,  where  there 
is  less  to  excite,  and  I  live  in  a  more  quiet  quarter,  I  feel 
as  if  I  needed  to  sleep  all  the  time,  and  cannot  rest  as  I 
ought,  there  is  so  much  to  do. 

I  now  speak  French  fluently,  though  not  correctly, 
yet  well  enough  to  make  my  thoughts  avail  in  the  cul- 
tivated society  here,  where  it  is  much  spoken.  But  to 
know  the  common  people,  and  to  feel  truly  in  Italy,  I 
ought  to  speak  and  understand  the  spoken  Italian  well, 
and  I  am  now  cultivating  this  sedulously.  If  I  remain, 
I  shall  have,  for  many  reasons,  advantages  for  observa- 
tion and  enjoyment,  such  as  are  seldom  permitted  to  a 
foreigner. 

I  forgot  to  mention  one  little  thing  rather  interesting. 
At  the  Miserere  of  the  Sistine  chapel,  I  sat  beside 
Goethe's  favorite  daughter-in-law,  Ottilia,  to  whom  I 
was  introduced  by  Mrs.  Jameson. 

TO  R.  F.  F. 

Florence,  July  1,  1847.  — I  do  not  wish  to  go  through 
Germany  in  a  hurried  way,  and  am  equally  unsatisfied 
to  fly  through  Italy;  and  shall,  therefore,  leaving  my 
companions  in  Switzerland,  take  a  servant  to  accompany 


MILAN.  211 

me,  and  return  hither,  and  hence  to  Rome  for  the  autumn, 
perhaps  the  winter.  I  should  always  suffer  the  pain  of 
Tantalus  thinking  of  Rome,  if  I  could  not  see  it  more 
thoroughly  than  I  have  as  yet  even  begun  to;  for  it  was 
all  outside  the  two  months,  just  finding  out  where  objects 
were.  I  had  only  just  begun  to  know  them,  when  1  • 
was  obliged  to  leave.  The  prospect  of  returning  pre- 
sents many  charms,  but  it  leaves  me  alone  in  the  midst 
of  a  strange  land. 

I  find  myself  happily  situated  here,  in  many  respects. 
The  Marchioness  Arconati  Visconti,  to  whom  I  brought 
a  letter  from  a  friend  of  hers  in  France,  has  been  good 
to  me  as  a  sister,  and  introduced  me  to  many  interesting 
acquaintance.  The  sculptors,  Powers  and  Greenough, 
I  have  seen  much  and  well.  Other  acquaintance  I  pos- 
sess, less  known  to  fame,  but  not  less  attractive. 

Florence  is  not  like  Rome.  At  first,  I  could  not  bear 
the  change ;  yet,  for  the  study  of  the  fine  arts,  it  is  a  still 
richer  place.  Worlds  of  thought  have  risen  in  my 
mind ;  some  time  you  will  have  light  from  all. 

Milan,  Aug.  9,  1847.  —  Passing  from  Florence,  I  came 
to  Bologna.  A  woman  should  love  Bologna,  for  there 
has  the  intellect  of  woman  been  cherished.  In  their 
Certosa,  they  proudly  show  the  monument  to  Matilda 
Tambreni,  late  Greek  professor  there.  In  their  anatom- 
ical hall,  is  the  bust  of  a  woman,  professor  of  anatomy. 
In  art,  they  have  had  Properzia  di  Rossi,  Elisabetta 
Sirani,  Lavinia  Fontana,  and  delight  to  give  their  works 
a  conspicuous  place.  In  other  cities,  the  men  alone 
have  their  Casino  dei  Nobili,  where  they  give  balls  and 
conversazioni.  Here,  women  have  one,  and  are  the  soul 


212  EUROPE. 

of  society.     In   Milan,   also,  I  see,  in  the  Ambrosian 
Library,  the  bust  of  a  female  mathematician. 

TO   HER   MOTHER. 

Lago  di  Garda,  Aug.  1,  1847.  —  Do  not  let  what  I 
have  written  disturb  you  as  to  my  health.  I  have 
rested  now,  and  am  as  well  as  usual.  This  advantage 
I  derive  from  being  alone,  that,  if  I  feel  the  need  of  it,  I 
can  stop. 

I  left  Venice  four  days  ago ;  have  seen  well  Vicenza, 
Verona,  Mantua,  and  am  reposing,  for  two  nights  and  a 
day,  in  this  tranquil  room  which  overlooks  the  beautiful 
Lake  of  Garda.  The  air  is  sweet  and  pure,  and  I  hear 
no  noise  except  the  waves  breaking  on  the  shore. 

I  think  of  you  a  great  deal,  especially  when  there  are 
flowers.  Florence  was  all  flowers.  I  have  many  mag- 
nolias and  jasmines.  I  always  wish  you  could  see  them. 
The  other  day,  on  the  island  of  San  Lazaro,  at  the 
Armenian  Convent,  where  Lord  Byron  used  to  go,  I 
thought  of  you,  seeing  the  garden  full  of  immense 
oleanders  in  full  bloom.  One  sees  them  everywhere  at 
Venice. 

TO   HER    TRAVELLING   COMPANIONS   AFTER   PARTING. 

Milan,  Aug.  9,  1847.  —  I  remained  at  Venice  near  a 
week  after  your  departure,  to  get  strong  and  tranquil 
again.  Saw  all  the  pictures,  if  not  enough,  yet  pretty 
well.  My  journey  here  was  very  profitable.  Vicenza, 
Verona,  Mantua,  I  saw  really  well,  and  much  there  is 
to  see.  Certainly  I  had  learned  more  than  ever  in  any 
previous  ten  days  of  my  existence,  and  have  formed  an 


MILAN.  213 

idea  of  what  is  needed  for  the  study  of  art  in  these 
regions.  But,  at  Brescia,  I  was  taken  ill  with  fever.  .  I 
cannot  tell  you  how  much  I  was  alarmed  when  it 
seemed  to  me  it  was  affecting  my  head.  I  had  no  med- 
icine; nothing  could  I  do  except  abstain  entirely  from 
food,  and  drink  cold  water.  The  second  day,  I  had  a 
bed  made  in  a  carriage,  and  came  on  here.  I  am  now 
pretty  well,  only  very  weak. 


TO  R.  w.  E. 

Milan,  Aug.  10,  1847.  —  Since  writing  you  from 
Florence,  I  have  passed  the  mountains;  two  full,  rich 
days  at  Bologna;  one  at  Ravenna;  more  than  a  fort- 
night at  Venice,  intoxicated  with  the  place,  and  with 
Venetian  art,  only  to  be  really  felt  and  known  in  its 
birth-place.  I  have  passed  some  hours  at  Vicenza,  see- 
ing mainly  the  Palladian  structures ;  a  day  at  Verona, — 
a  week  had  been  better;  seen  Mantua,  with-  great 
delight;  several  days  in  Lago  di  Garda,  —  truly  happy 
days  there;  then,  to  Brescia,  where  I  saw  the  Titians, 
the  exquisite  Raphael,  the  Scavi,  and  the  Brescian  Hills. 
I  could  charm  you  by  pictures,  had  I  time. 

To-day,  for  the  first  time,  I  have  seen  Manzoni. 
Manzoni  has  spiritual  efficacy  in  his  looks;  his  eyes 
glow  still  with  delicate  tenderness,  as  when  he  first  saw 
Lucia,  or  felt  them  fill  at  the  image  of  Father  Cristo- 
foro.  His  manners  are  very  engaging,  frank,  expan- 
sive; every  word  betokens  the  habitual  elevation  of  his 
thoughts;  and  (what  you  care  for  so  much)  he  says 
distinct,  good  things;  but  you  must  not  expect  me  to 
note  them  down.  He  lives  in  the  house  of  his  fathers, 
in  the  simplest  manner.  He  has  taken  the  liberty  to 


214  EUROPE. 

marry  a  new  wife  for  his  own  pleasure  and  companion- 
ship, and  the  people  around  him  do  not  like  it,  because 
she  does  not,  to  their  fancy,  make  a  good  pendant  to 
him.  But  I  liked  her  very  well,  and  saw  why  he  mar- 
ried her.  They  asked  me  to  return  often,  if  I  pleased, 
and  I  mean  to  go  once  or  twice,  for  Manzoni  seems  to 
like  to  talk  with  me. 

Rome,  Oct.,  1847.  —  Leaving  Milan,  I  went  on  the 
Lago  Maggiore,  and  afterward  into  Switzerland.  Of 
this  tour  I  shall  not  speak  here ;  it  was  a  little  romance 
by  itself. 

Returning  from  Switzerland,  I  passed  a  fortnight  on 
the  Lake  of  Como,  and  afterward  visited  Lugano. 
There  is  no  exaggeration  in  the  enthusiastic  feeling 
with  which  artists  and  poets  have  viewed  these  Italian 
lakes.  The  "Titan"  of  Richter,  the  "Wanderjahre" 
of  Goethe,  the  Elena  of  Taylor,  the  pictures  of  Turner, 
had  not  prepared  me  for  the  visions  of  beauty  that  daily 
entranced  the  eyes  and  heart  in  those  regions.  To  our 
country,  Nature  has  been  most  bounteous,  but  we  have 
nothing  in  the  same  class  that  can  compare  with  these 
lakes,  as  seen  under  the  Italian  heaven.  As  to  those 
persons  who  have  pretended  to  discover  that  the  effects 
of  light  and  atmosphere  were  no  finer  than  they  found 
in  our  own  lake  scenery,  I  can  only  say  that  they  must 
be  exceedingly  obtuse  in  organization, — a  defect  not 
uncommon  among  Americans. 

Nature  seems  to  have  labored  to  express  her  full  heart 
in  as  many  ways  as  possible,  when  she  made  these 
lakes,  moulded  and  planted  their  shores.  Lago  Maggiore 
is  grandiose,  resplendent  in  its  beauty ;  the  view  of  the 
Alps  gives  a  sort  of  lyric  exaltation  to  the  scene.  Lago 


THE   LAKES.  215 

di  Garda  is  so  soft  and  fair  on  one  side,  —  the  ruins  of 
ancient  palaces  rise  softly  with  the  beauties  of  that 
shore;  but  at  the  other  end,  amid  the  Tyrol,  it  is  so 
sublime,  so  calm,  so  concentrated  in  its  meaning! 
Como  cannot  be  better  described  in  generals  than  in  the 
words  of  Taylor :  — 

"  Softly-  sublime,  profusely  fair  " 

Lugano  is  more  savage,  more  free  in  its  beauty.  I 
•was  on  it  in  a  high  gale ;  there  was  little  danger,  just 
enough  to  exhilarate ;  its  waters  wild,  and  clouds  blow- 
ing across  its  peaks.  I  like  the  boatmen  on  these 
lakes;  they  have  strong  and  prompt  character;  of 
simple  features,  they  are  more  honest  and  manly  than 
Italian  men  are  found  in  the  thoroughfares ;  their  talk 
is  not  so  witty  as  that  of  the  Venetian  gondoliers, 
but  picturesque,  and  what  the  French  call  incisive. 
Very  touching  were  some  of  their  histories,  as  they 
told  them  to  me,  while  pausing  sometimes  on  the 
lake.  Grossi  gives  a  true  picture  of  such  a  man  in 
his  family  relations;  the  story  may  be  found  in  "Marco 
Visconti." 

On  this  lake,  I  met  Lady  Franklin,  wife  of  the 
celebrated  navigator.  She  has  been  in  the  United 
States,  and  showed  equal  penetration  and  candor  in 
remarks  on  what  she  had  seen  there.  She  gave  me 
interesting  particulars  as  to  the  state  of  things  in  Van 
Diemen's  Land,  where  she  passed  seven  years,  when 
her  husband  was  in  authority  there. 


216 


Lake  of  Como,  Aug.  22,  1847.  —  Rome  was  much 
poisoned  to  me.  But,  after  a  time,  its  genius  triumphed, 
and  I  became  absorbed  in  its  proper  life.  Again  I  suf- 
fered from  parting,  and  have  since  resolved  to  return, 
and  pass  at  least  a  part  of  the  winter  there.  People  may 
write  and  prate  as  they  please  of  Rome,  they  cannot 
convey  thus  a  portion  of  its  spirit.  The  whole  heart 
must  be  yielded  up  to  it.  It  is  something  really  tran- 
scendent, both  spirit  and  body.  Those  last  glorious 
nights,  in  which  I  wandered  about  amid  the  old  walls 
and  columns,  or  sat  by  the  fountains  in  the  Piazza  del 
Popolo,  or  by  the  river,  were  worth  an  age  of  pain, — 
only  one  hates  pain  in  Italy. 

Tuscany  I  did  not  like  as  well.  It  is  a  great  place  to 
study  the  history  of  character  and  art.  Indeed,  there  I 
did  really  begin  to  study,  as  well  as  gaze  and  feel.  But  I 
did  not  like  it.  Florence  is  more  in  its  spirit  like  Boston, 
than  like  an  Italian  city.  I  knew  a  good  many  Italians, 
but  they  were  busy  and  intellectual,  not  like  those  I  had 
known  before.  But  Florence  is  full  of  really  good,  great 
pictures.  There  first  I  saw  some  of  the  great  masters. 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  in  particular,  one  sees  only  there,  and 
he  is  worth  much.  His  wife,  whom  he  always  paints, 
and  for  whom  he  was  so  infatuated,  has  some  bad  qual- 
ities, and  in  what  is  good  a  certain  wild  nature  or 
diablerie. 

Bologna  is  truly  an  Italian  city,  one  in  which  I  should 
like  to  live;  full  of  hidden  things,  and  its  wonders  of  art 
are  very  grand.  TheCaracci  and  their  friends  had  vast 
force ;  not  much  depth,  but  enough  force  to  occupy  one  a 


THE   LAKES.  217 

good  while,  —  and  Domenichino,  when  good  at  all,  is 
very  great. 

Venice  was  a  dream  of  enchantment;  there  was  no 
disappointment.  Art  and  life  are  one.  There  is  one 
glow  of  joy,  one  deep  shade  of  passionate  melancholy ; 
Giorgione,  as  a  man,  I  care  more  for  now  than  any  of  the 
artists,  though  he  had  no  ideas. 

In  the  first  week,  floating  about  in  a  gondola,  I  seemed 
to  find  myself  again. 

I  was  not  always  alone  in  Venice,  but  have  come 
through  the  fertile  plains  of  Lombardy,  seen  the  lakes 
Garda  and  Maggiore,  and  a  part  of  Switzerland,  alone, 
except  for  occasional  episodes  of  companionship,  some- 
times romantic  enough. 

In  Milan  I  stayed  awhile,  and  knew  some  radicals, 
young,  and  interested  in  ideas.  Here,  on  the  lake,  I 
have  fallen  into  contact  with  some  of  the  higher  society, 
—  duchesses,  marquises,  and  the  like.  My  friend  here 
is  Madame  Arconati,  Marchioness  Visconti.  I  have 
formed  connection  with  a  fair  and  brilliant  Polish  lady, 
bom  Princess  Radzivill.  It  is  rather  pleasant  to  come 
a  little  on  the  traces  of  these  famous  histories;  also,  both 
these  ladies  take  pleasure  in  telling  me  of  spheres  so 
unlike  mine,  and  do  it  well. 

The  life  here  on  the  lake  is  precisely  what  we  once 
imagined  as  being  so  pleasant.  These  people  have 
charming  villas  and  gardens  on  the  lake,  adorned  with 
fine  works  of  art.  They  go  to  see  one  another  in  boats. 
You  can  be  all  the  time  in  a  boat,  if  you  like ;  if  you 
want  more  excitement,  or  wild  flowers,  you  climb  the 
mountains.  I  have  been  here  for  some  time,  and  shall 
stay  a  week  longer.  I  have  found  soft  repose  here. 

VOL.  n.  19 


218  EUROPE. 

Now,  I  am  to  return  to  Rome,  seeing  many  things  by 
the  way. 

TO    R.    F.    F. 

Florence,  Sept.  25, 1847.  —  I  hope  not  to  want  a  further 
remittance  for  a  long  time.  I  shall  not,  if  I  can  settle 
myself  at  Rome  so  as  to  avoid  spoliation.  That  is  very 
difficult  in  this  country.  I  have  suffered  from  it  already. 
The  haste,  the  fatigue,  the  frequent  illness  in  travelling, 
have  tormented  me.  At  Rome  I  shall  settle  myself  for 
five  months,  and  make  arrangements  to  the  best  of  my 
judgment,  and  with  counsel  of  experienced  friends,  and 
have  some  hope  of  economy  while  there ;  but  am  not 
sure,  as  much  more  vigilance  than  I  can  promise  is  needed 
against  the  treachery  of  servants  and  the  cunning  of 
landlords. 

You  are  disappointed  by  my  letter  from  Rome.  But  I 
did  not  feel  equal  then  to  speaking  of  the  things  of  Rome, 
and  shall  not,  till  better  acquaintance  has  steadied  my 
mind.  It  is  a  matter  of  conscience  with  me  not  to  make 
use  of  crude  impressions,  and  what  they  call  here  " coffee- 
house intelligence,"  as  travellers  generally  do.  I  prefer 
skimming  over  the  surface  of  things,  till  I  feel  solidly 
ready  to  write. 

Milan  I  left  with  great  regret,  and  hope  to  return.  I 
knew  there  a  circle  of  the  aspiring  youth,  such  as  I  have 
not  in  any  other  city.  I  formed  many  friendships,  and 
learned  a  great  deal.  One  of  the  young  men,  Guerrieri 
by  name,  (and  of  the  famous  Gonzaga  family,)  I  really 
love.  He  has  a  noble  soul,  the  quietest  sensibility,  and 
a  brilliant  and  ardent,  though  not  a  great,  mind.  He  is 
eight-and-twenty.  After  studying  medicine  for  the  cul- 
ture, he  has  taken  law  as  his  profession.  His  mind  and 


FLORENCE.  219 

that  of  Hicks,  an  artist  of  our  country  now  here,  a 
little  younger,  are  two  that  would  interest  you  greatly. 
Guerrieri  speaks  no  English ;  I  speak  French  now  as 
fluently  as  English,  but  incorrectly.  To  make  use  of  it, 
I  ought  to  have  learned  it  earlier. 

Arriving  here,  Mr.  Mozier,  an' American,  who  from  a 
prosperous  merchant  has  turned  sculptor,  come  hither  to 
live,  and  promises  much  excellence  in  his  profession, 
urged  me  so  much  to  his  house,  that  I  came.  At  first,  I 
was  ill  from  fatigue,  and  staid  several  days  in  bed ;  but 
his  wife  took  tender  care  of  me,  and  the  quiet  of  their 
house  and  regular  simple  diet  have  restored  me.  As 
soon  as  I  have  seen  a  few  things  here,  I  shall  go  to  Rome. 
On  my  way,  I  stopped  at  Parma,  —  saw  the  works  of 
Correggio  and  Parmegiano.  I  have  now  seen  what  Italy 
contains  most  important  of  the  great  past ;  I  begin  to 
hope  for  her  also  a  great  future, — the  signs  have  im- 
proved so  much  since  I  came.  I  am  most  fortunate  to  be 
here  at  this  time. 

Interrupted,  as  always.  How  happy  I  should  be  if  my 
abode  at  Rome  would  allow  some  chance  for  tranquil 
and  continuous  effort.  But  I  dare  not  hope  much,  from 
the  difficulty  of  making  any  domestic  arrangements  that 
can  be  relied  on.  The  fruit  of  the  moment  is  so  precious, 
that  I  must  not  complain.  I  learn  much ;  but  to  do  any- 
thing with  what  I  learn  is,  under  such  circumstances, 
impossible.  Besides,  I  am  in  great  need  of  repose ;  I  am 
almost  inert  from  fatigue  of  body  and  spirit. 


Florence,  Sept.,  1847.  —  I  cannot  even  begin  to  speak  of 
the  magnificent  scenes  of  nature,  nor  the  works  of  art,  that 


have  raised  and  filled  my  mind  since  I  wrote  from  Na- 
ples. Now  I  begin  to  be  in  Italy  !  .but  I  wish  to  drink 
deep  of  this  cup  before  I  speak  my  enamored  words. 
Enough  to  say,  Italy  receives  me  as  a  long-lost  child, 
and  I  feel  myself  at  home  here,  and  if  I  ever  tell  any- 
thing about  it,  you  will  hear  something  real  and  domestic. 
Among  strangers  I  wish  most  to  speak  to  you  of  my 
friend  the  Marchioness  A.  Visconti,  a  Milanese.  She  is  a 
specimen  of  the  really  high-bred  lady,  such  as  I  have 
not  known.  Without  any  physical  beauty,  the  grace 
and  harmony  of  her  manners  produce  all  the  impression 
of  beauty.  She  has  also  a  mind  strong,  clear,  precise, 
and  much  cultivated.  She  has  a  modest  nobleness  that 
you  would  dearly  love.  She  is  intimate  with  many  of 
the  first  men.  She  seems  to  love  me  much,  and  to  wish 
I  should  have  whatever  is  hers.  I  take  great  pleasure 
in  her  friendship. 

TO  R.  w.  E. 

Rome,  Oct.  28,  1847.  —  I  am  happily  settled  for  the 
winter,  quite  by  myself,  in  a  neat,  tranquil  apartment  in 
the  Corso,  where  I  see  all  the  motions  of  Rome,  —  in  a 
house  of  loving  Italians,  who  treat  me  well,  and  do  not 
interrupt  me,  except  for  service.  I  live  alone,  eat  alone, 
walk  alone,  and  enjoy  unspeakably  the  stillness,  after  all 
the  rush  and  excitement  of  the  past  year. 

I  shall  make  no  acquaintance  from  whom  I  do  not 
hope  a  good  deal,  as  my  time  will  be  like  pure  gold  to 
me  this  winter ;  and,  just  for  happiness,  Rome  itself  is 
sufficient. 

To-day  is  the  last  of  the  October  feasts  of  the  Tras- 
teverini.  I  have  been,  this  afternoon,  to  see  them  dancing. 


ROME.  221 

This  morning  I  was  out,  with  half  Rome,  to  see  the  Civic 
Guard  manoeuvring  in  that  great  field  near  the  tomb  of 
Cecilia  Metella,  which  is  full  of  ruins.  The  effect  was 
noble,  as  the  band  played  the  Bolognese  march,  and  six 
thousand  Romans  passed  in  battle  array  amid  these 
fragments  of  the  great  time. 

TO  R.  F.  F. 

Rome,  Oct.  29,  1847.  —  I  am  trying  to  economize, — 
anxious  to  keep  the  Roman  expenses  for  six  months 
within  the  limits  of  four  hundred  dollars.  Rome  is  not 
as  cheap  a  place  as  Florence,  but  then  I  would  not  give 
a  pin  to  live  in  Florence. 

We  have  just  had  glorious  times  with  the  October 
feasts,  when  all  the  Roman  people  were  out.  I  am  now 
truly  happy  here,  quiet  and  familiar ;  no  longer  a  staring, 
sight-seeing  stranger,  riding  about  finely  dressed  in  a 
coach  to  see  muses  and  sibyls.  I  see  these  forms  now  in 
the  natural  manner,  and  am  contented. 

Keep  free  from  false  ties ;  they  are  the  curse  of  life. 
1  find  myself  so  happy  here,  alone  and  free. 


Rome,  Oct.  1847.  —  I  arrived  in  Rome  again  nearly 
a  fortnight  ago,  and  all  mean  things  were  forgotten  in  the 
joy  that  rushed  over  me  like  a  flood.  Now  I  saw  the 
true  Rome.  I  came  with  no  false  expectations,  and  I 
came  to  live  in  tranquil  companionship,  not  in  the  rest- 
less impertinence  of  sight-seeing,  so  much  more  painful 
here  than  anywhere  else. 

I  had  made  a  good  visit  to  Vicenza ;  a  truly  Italian 

VOL.  II.  19* 


222  EUROPE. 

town,  with  much  to  see  and  study.  But  all  other  places 
faded  away,  now  that  I  again  saw  St.  Peter's,  and  heard 
the  music  of  the  fountains. 

The  Italian  autumn  is  not  as  beautiful  as  I  expected, 
neither  in  the  vintage  of  Tuscany  nor  here.  The 
country  is  really  sere  and  brown ;  but  the  weather  is 
fine,  and  these  October  feasts  are  charming.  Two  days 
I  have  been  at  the  Yilla  Borghese.  There  are  races,  bal- 
loons, and,  above  all,  the  private  gardens  open,  and  good 
music  on  the  little  lake. 


Rome,  morning  of  the  \7th  Nov.,  1847. —  It  seems  great 
folly  to  send  the  enclosed  letter.  I  have  written  it  in  my 
nightly  fever.  All  day  I  dissipate  my  thoughts  on  out- 
ward beauty.  I  have  many  thoughts,  happiest  moments, 
but  as  yet  I  do  not  have  even  this  part  in  a  congenial 
way.  I  go  about  in  a  coach  with  several  people;  but 
English  and  Americans  are  not  at  home  here.  Since  I 
have  experienced  the  different  atmosphere  of  the  Euro- 
pean mind,  and  been  allied  with  it,  nay,  mingled  in  the 
bonds  of  love,  I  suffer  more  than  ever  from  that  which 
is  peculiarly  American  or  English.  I  should  like  to 
cease  from  hearing  the  language  for  a  time.  Perhaps 
I  should  return  to  it ;  but  at  present  I  am  in  a  state  of 
unnatural  divorce  from  what  I  was  most  allied  to. 

There  is  a  Polish  countess  here,  who  likes  me  much. 
She  has  been  very  handsome,  still  is,  in  the  style  of  the 
full-blown  rose.  She  is  a  widow,  very  rich,  one  of  the 
emancipated  women,  naturally  vivacious,  and  with  tal- 
ent. This  woman  envies  me ;  she  says,  "  How  happy 
you  are;  so  free,  so  serene,  so  attractive,  so  self-pos- 


ROME.  223 

. ! "  I  say  not  a  word,  but  I  do  not  look  on  myself 
as  particularly  enviable.  A  little  money  would  have 
made  me  much  more  so ;  a  little  money  would  have  en- 
abled me  to  come  here  long  ago,  and  find  those  that 
belong  to  me,  or  at  least  try  my  experiments;  then  my 
health  would  never  have  sunk,  nor  the  best  years  of 
my  life  been  wasted  in  useless  friction.  Had  I  money 
now,  —  could  I  only  remain,  take  a  faithful  servant,  and 
live  alone,  and  still  see  those  I  love  when  it  is  best,  that 
would  suit  me.  It  seems  to  me,  very  soon  I  shall  be 
calmed,  and  begin  to  enjoy. 

TO   HER    MOTHER. 

Rome,  Dec.  16,  1847.  —  My  life  at  Rome  is  thus  far 
all  I  hoped.  I  have  not  been  so  well  since  I  was  a  child, 
nor  so  happy  ever,  as  during  the  last  six  weeks.  I  wrote 
you  about  my  home ;  it  continues  good,  perfectly  clean, 
food  wholesome,  service  exact.  For  all  this  I  pay,  but 
not  immoderately.  I  think  the  sum  total  of  my  expenses 
here,  for  six  months,  will  not  exceed  four  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars. 

My  marchesa,  of  whom  I  rent  my  rooms,  is  the  greatest 
liar  I  ever  knew,  and  the  most  interested,  heartless  crea- 
ture. But  she  thinks  it  for  her  interest  to  please  me,  as 
she  sees  I  have  a  good  many  persons  who  value  me;  and 
I  have  been  able,  without  offending  her,  to  make  it  under- 
stood that  I  do  not  wish  her  society.  Thus  I  remain 
undisturbed. 

Every  Monday  evening,  I  receive  my  acquaintance.  I 
give  no  refreshment,  but  only  light  the  saloon,  and  deco- 
rate it  with  fresh  flowers,  of  which  I  have  plenty  still. 
How  I  wish  you  could  see  them ! 


224  EUROPE. 

Among  the  frequent  guests  are  known  to  you  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Cranch,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Story.  Mr.  S.  has  finally 
given  up  law,  for  the  artist's  life.  His  plans  are  not 
matured,  but  he  passes  the  winter  at  Rome. 

On  other  evenings,  I  do  not  receive  company,  unless 
by  appointment.  I  spend  them  chiefly  in  writing  or 
study.  I  have  now  around  me  the  books  I  need  to  know 
Italy  and  Rome.  I  study  with  delight,  now  that  I  can 
verify  everything.  The  days  are  invariably  fine,  and 
each  day  I  am  out  from  eleven  till  five,  exploring  some 
new  object  of  interest,  often  at  a  great  distance. 

TO  R.  w.  E. 

Rome,  Dec.  20, 1847.  —  Nothing  less  than  two  or  three 
years,  free  from  care  and  forced  labor,  would  heal  all 
my  hurts,  and  renew  my  life-blood  at  its  source.  Since 
Destiny  will  not  grant  me  that,  I  hope  she  will  not  leave 
me  long  in  the  world,  for  I  am  tired  of  keeping  myself 
up  in  the  water  without  corks,  and  without  strength  to 
swim.  I  should  like  to  go  to  sleep,  and  be  born  again 
into  a  state  where  my  young  life  should  not  be  prema- 
turely taxed. 

Italy  has  been  glorious  to  me,  and  there  have  been 
hours  in  which  I  received  the  full  benefit  of  the  vision. 
In  Rome,  I  have  known  some  blessed,  quiet  days,  when 
I  could  yield  myself  to  be  soothed  and  instructed  by  the 
gredt  thoughts  and  memories  of  the  place.  But  those 
days  are  swiftly  passing.  Soon  I  must  begin  to  exert 
myself,  for  there  is  this  incubus  of  the  future,  and  none 
to  help  me,  if  I  am  not  prudent  to  face  it.  So  ridiculous, 
too,  this  mortal  coil,  —  such  small  things ! 

I  find  how  true  was  the  lure  that  always  drew  me 


towards  Europe.  It  was  no  false  instinct  that  said  I 
might  here  find  an  atmosphere  to  develop  me  in  ways  I 
need.  Had  I  only  come  ten  years  earlier !  Now  my 
life  must  be  a  failure,  so  much  strength  has  been  wasted 
on  abstractions,  which  only  came  because  I  grew  not  in 
the  right  soil.  However,  it  is  a  less  failure  than  with 
most  others,  and  not  worth*  thinking  twice  about. 
Heaven  has  room  enough,  and  good  chances  in  store, 
and  I  can  live  a  great  deal  in  the  years  that  remain. 


TO  R.  w.  E. 

Rome,  Dec.  20,  1847.  —  I  don't  know  whether  you 
take  an  interest  in  the  present  state  of  things  in  Italy, 
but  you  would  if  you  were  here.  It  is  a  fine  time  to  see 
the  people.  As  to  the  Pope,  it  is  as  difficult  here  as  else- 
where to  put  new  wine  into  old  bottles,  and  there  is 
something  false  as  well  as  ludicrous  in  the  spectacle  of 
the  people  first  driving  their  princes  to  do  a  little  justice, 
and  then  evviva-ing  them  at  such  a  rate.  This  does 
not  apply  to  the  Pope ;  he  is  a  real  great  heart,  a  gener- 
ous man.  The  love  for  him  is  genuine,  and  I  like  to  be 
within  its  influence.  It  was  his  heart  that  gave  the 
impulse,  and  this  people  has  shown,  to  the  shame  of 
English  and  other  prejudice,  how  unspoiled  they  were 
at  the  core,  how  open,  nay,  how  wondrous  swift  to 
answer  a  generous  appeal ! 

They  are  also  gaining  some  education  by  the  present 
freedom  of  the  press  and  of  discussion.  I  should  like  to 
write  a  letter  for  England,  giving  my  view  of  the  present 
position  of  things  here. 


Rome,  October  18,  1847.  —  In  the  spring,  when  I  came 
to  Rome,  the  people  were  in  the  intoxication  of  joy  at 
the  first  serious  measures  of  reform  taken  by  the  Pope. 
I  saw  with  pleasure  their  childlike  joy  and  trust.  Still 
doubts  were  always  present  whether  this  joy  was  not 
premature.  From  the  people  themselves  the  help  must 
come,  and  not  from  the  princes.  Rome,  to  resume  her 
glory,  must  cease  to  be  an  ecclesiastical  capital.  Whilst 
I  sympathized  with  the  warm  love  of  the  people,  the 
adulation  of  leading  writers,  who  were  willing  to  take 
all  from  the  prince  of  the  Church  as  a  gift  and  a  bounty, 
instead  of  steadily  implying  that  it  was  the  right  of  the 
people,  was  very  repulsive  to  me.  Passing  into  Tus- 
cany, I  found  the  liberty  of  the  press  just  established. 
The  Grand  Duke,  a  well-intentioned,  though  dull,  man, 
had  dared  to  declare  himself  an  Italian  prince.  I  arrived 
in  Florence  too  late  for  the  great  fete  of  the  12th  Sep- 
tember, in  honor  of  the  grant  of  the  National  Guard, 
but  the  day  was  made  memorable  by  the  most  generous 
feeling  on  all  sides.  Some  days  before  were  passed  by 
reconciling  all  strifes,  composing  all  differences  between 
cities,  districts,  and  individuals.  On  that  day  they  all 
embraced  in  sign  of  this ;  exchanged  banners  as  a  token 
that  they  would  fight  for  one  another. 


AMERICANS   IN   ITALY. 

The  Americans  took  their  share  in  this  occasion,  and 
Greeriough,  —  one  of  the  few  Americans  who,  living  in 
Italy,  takes  the  pains  to  know  whether  it  is  alive  or 
dead,  who  penetrates  beyond  the  cheats  of  tradesmen, 
and  the  cunning  of  a  mob  corrupted  by  centuries  of 


AMERICANS   IN   ITALY.  227 

slavery,  to  know  the  real  mind,  the  vital  blood  of  Italy, 
—  took  a  leading  part.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  a  large 
portion  of  my  countrymen  here  take  the  same-slothful  and 
prejudiced  view  as  the  English,  and,  after  many  years' 
sojourn,  betray  entire  ignorance  of  Italian  literature  and 
Italian  life  beyond  what  is  attainable  in  a  month's  pas- 
sage through  the  thoroughfares.  However,  they  did 
show,  this  time,  a  becoming  spirit,  and  erected  the  Amer- 
ican Eagle  where  its  cry  ought  to  be  heard  from  afar. 
Crawford,  here  in  Rome,  has  had  the  just  feeling  to  join 
the  Guard,  and  it  is  a  real  sacrifice  for  an  artist  to  spend 
time  on  the  exercises ;  but  it  well  becomes  the  sculptor 
of  Orpheus.  In  reference  to  what  I  have  said  of  many 
Americans  in  Italy,  I  will  only  add  that  they  talk  about  the 
corrupt  and  degenerate  state  of  Italy  as  they  do  about  that 
of  our  slaves  at  home.  They  come  ready  trained  to  that 
mode  of  reasoning  which  affirms,  that,  because  men  are 
degraded  by  bad  institutions,  they  are  not  fit  for  better. 
I  will  only  add  some  words  upon  the  happy  augury 
I  draw  from  the  wise  docility  of  the  people.  With  what 
readiness  they  listened  to  wise  counsel  and  the  hopes  of 
the  Pope  that  they  would  give  no  advantage  to  his  ene- 
mies at  a  time  when  they  were  so  fevered  by  the  knowl- 
edge that  conspiracy  was  at  work  in  their  midst !  That 
was  a  time  of  trial.  On  all  these  occasions  of  popular 
excitement  their  conduct  is  like  music,  in  such  order,  and 
with  such  union  of  the  melody  of  feeling  with  discretion 
where  to  stop ;  but  what  is  wonderful  is  that  they  acted 
in  the  same  manner  on  that  difficult  occasion.  The 
influence  of  the  Pope  here  is  without  bounds ;  he  can 
always  calm  the  crowd  at  once.  But  in  Tuscany,  where 
they  have  no  such  one  idol,  they  listened  in  the  same  way 
on  a  very  trying  occasion.  The  first  announcement  of  the 


228  EUROPE. 

regulation  for  the  Tuscan  National  Guard  terribly  disap- 
pointed the  people.  They  felt  that  the  Grand  Duke, 
after  suffering  them  to  demonstrate  such  trust  and  joy  on 
this  feast  of  the  12th,  did  not  really  trust,  on  his  side; 
that  he  meant  to  limit  them  all  he  could;  they  felt 
baffled,  cheated;  hence  young  men  in  anger  tore  down 
at  once  the  symbols  of  satisfaction  and  respect ;  but  the 
leading  men  went  among  the  people,  begged  them  to  be 
calm,  and  wait  till  a  deputation  had  seen  the  Grand 
Duke.  The  people  listened  at  once  to  men  who,  they 
were  sure,  had  at  heart  their  best  good  —  waited;  the 
Grand  Duke  became  convinced,  and  all  ended  without 
disturbance.  If  the  people  continue  to  act  thus,  their 
hopes  cannot  be  baffled. 

The  American  in  Europe  would  fain  encourage  the 
hearts  of  these  long-oppressed  nations,  now  daring  to 
hope  for  a  new  era,  by  reciting  triumphant  testimony 
from  the  experience  of  his  own  country.  But  we  must 
stammer  and  blush  when  we  speak  of  many  things. 
I  take  pride  here,  that  I  may  really  say  the  liberty 
of  the  press  works  well,  and  that  checks  and  balances 
naturally  evolve  from  it,  which  suffice  to  its  govern- 
ment. I  may  say,  that  the  minds  of  our  people  are 
alert,  and  that  talent  has  a  free  chance  to  rise.  It  is 
much.  But  dare  I  say,  that  political  ambition  is  not  as 
darkly  sullied  as  in  other  countries?  Dare  I  say,  that 
men  of  most  influence  in  political  life  are  those  who 
represent  most  virtue,  or  even  intellectual  power?  Can 
I  say,  our  social  laws  are  generally  better,  or  show  a 
nobler  insight  into  the  wants  of  man  and  woman  ?  I  do 
indeed  say  what  I  believe,  that  voluntary  association  for 
improvement  in  these  particulars  will  be  the  grand  means 
for  my  nation  to  grow,  and  give  a  nobler  harmony  to  the 


coming  age.  Then  there  is  this  cancer  of  slavery,  and 
this  wicked  war  that  has  grown  out  of  it.  How  dare  I 
speak  of  these  things  here]  I  listen  to  the  same  argu- 
ments against  the  emancipation  of  Italy,  that  are  used 
against  the  emancipation  of  our  blacks;  the  same  argu- 
ments in  favor  of  the  spoliation  of  Poland,  as  for  the 
conquest  of  Mexico. 

How  it  pleases  me  here  to  think  of  the  Abolitionists ! 
I  could  never- endure  to  be  with  them  at  home;  they  were 
so  tedious,  often  so  narrow,  always  so  rabid  and  exag- 
gerated in  their  tone.  But,  after  all,  they  had  a  high 
motive,  something  eternal  in  their  desire  and  life ;  and, 
if  it  was  not  the  only  thing  worth  thinking  of,  it  was 
really  something  worth  living  and  dying  for,  to  free  a 
great  nation  from  such  a  blot,  such  a  plague.  God 
strengthen  them,  and  make  them  wise  to  achieve  their 
purpose ! 

I  please  myself,  too,  with  remembering  some  ardent 
souls  among  the  American  youth,  who,  I  trust,  will  yet 
expand  and  help  to  give  soul  to  the  huge,  over-fed,  too- 
hastily-grown-up  body.  May  they  be  constant !  "Were 
man  but  constant,  he  were  perfect."  It  is  to  the  youth 
that  Hope  addresses  itself.  But  I  dare  not  expect  too 
much  of  them.  I  am  not  very  old ;  yet  of  those  who,  in 
life's  morning,  I  saw  touched  by  the  light  of  a  high  hope, 
many  have  seceded.  Some  have  become  voluptuaries; 
some  mere  family  men,  who  think  it  is  quite  life  enough 
to  win  bread  for  half  a  dozen  people,  and  treat  them 
decently ;  others  are  lost  through  indolence  and  vacilla- 
tion. Yet  some  remain  constant. 

"  I  have  witnessed  many  a  shipwreck,  yet  still  beat  noble  hearts." 
VOL.  ii.  20 


230  EUROPE. 

Rome,  January,  1848.  — As  one  becomes  domesticated 
here,  ancient  and  modem  Rome,  at  first  so  jumbled 
together,  begin  to  separate.  You  see  where  objects  and 
limits  anciently  were.  When  this  happens,  one  feels 
first  truly  at  ease  in  Rome.  Then  the  old  kings,  the 
consuls,  the  tribunes,  the  emperors,  the  warriors  of  eagle 
sight  and  remorseless  beak,  return  for  us,  and  the  toga- 
clad  procession  finds  room  to  sweep  across  the  scene; 
the  seven  hills  tower,  the  innumerable  temples  glitter, 
and  the  Via  Sacra  swarms  with  triumphal  life  once 
more. 

Rome,  Jan.  12, 1848.  —  In  Rome,  here,  the  new  Council 
is  inaugurated,  and  the  elections  have  given  tolerable  sat- 
isfaction. Twenty-four  carriages  had  been  lent  by  the 
princes  and  nobles,  at  the  request  of  the  city,  to  convey 
the  councillors.  Each  deputy  was  followed  by  his  target 
and  banner.  In  the  evening,  there  was  a  ball  given  at 
the  Argentine.  Lord  Minto  was  there,  Prince  Corsini, 
now  senator,  the  Torlonias,  in  uniform  of  the  Civic 
Guard,  Princess  Torlonia,  in  a  sash  of  their  colors  given 
her  by  the  Civic  Guard,  which  she  waved  in  answer  to 
their  greetings.  But  the  beautiful  show  of  the  evening 
was  the  Trasteverini  dancing  the  Saltarello  in  their 
most  beautiful  costume.  I  saw  them  thus  to  much 
greater  advantage  than  ever  before.  Several  were  nobly 
handsome,  and  danced  admirably.  The  saltarello  en- 
chants me ;  in  this  is  really  the  Italian  wine,  the  Italian 
sun. 

The  Pope,  in  receiving  the  councillors,  made  a  speech, 
intimating  that  he  meant  only  to  improve,  not  to  reform, 
and  should  keep  things  safe  locked  with  the  keys  of  St. 
Peter. 


ROME.  231 

I  was  happy  the  first  two  months  of  my  stay  here, 
seeing  all  the  great  things  at  my  leisure.  But  now,  after 
a  month  of  continuous  rain,  Rome  is  no  more  Rome. 
The  atmosphere  is  far  worse  than  that  of  Paris.  It  is 
impossible  to  walk  in  the  thick  mud.  The  ruins,  and 
other  great  objects,  always  solemn,  appear  terribly 
gloomy,  steeped  in  black  rain  and  cloud ;  and  my  apart- 
ment, in  a  street  of  high  houses,  is  dark  all  day.  The 
bad  weather  may  continue  all  this  month  and  all  next. 
If  I  could  use  the  time  for  work,  I  should  not  care ;  but 
this  climate  makes  me  so  ill,  I  can  do  but  little. 


TO  c.  s. 

Rome,  Jan.  12,  1848.  —  My  time  in  Lombardy  and 
Switzerland  was  a  series  of  beautiful  pictures,  dramatic 
episodes,  not  without  some  original  life  in  myself.  When 
I  wrote  to  you  from  Como,  I  had  a  peaceful  season.  I 
floated  on  the  lake  with  my  graceful  Polish  countess, 
hearing  her  stories  of  heroic  sorrow ;  or  I  walked  in  the 
delicious  gardens  of  the  villas,  with  many  another  sum- 
mer friend.  Red  banners  floated,  children  sarjg  and 
shouted,  the  lakes  of  Venus  and  Diana  glittered  in  the 
sun.  The  pretty  girls  of  Bellaggio,  with  their  coral 
necklaces,  brought  flowers  to  the  "American  countess," 
and  "hoped  she  would  be  as  happy  as  she  deserved/' 
Whether  this  cautious  wish  is  fulfilled,  I  know  not, 
but  certainly  I  left  all  the  glitter  of  life  behind  at  Como. 

My  days  at  Milan  were  not  unmarked.  I  have  known 
some  happy  hours,  but  they  all  lead  to  sorrow ;  and  not 
only  the  cups  of  wine,  but  of  milk,  seem  drugged  with 
poison  for  me.  It  does  not  seem  to  be  my  fault,  this 


232  EUROPE. 

Destiny;  1  do  not  court  these  things,  —  they  come.  I 
am  a  poor  magnet,  with  power  to  be  wounded  by  the 
bodies  I  attract. 

Leaving  Milan,  I  had  a  brilliant  day  in  Parma.  I  had 
not  known  Correggio  before ;  he  deserves  all  his  fame. 
I  stood  in  the  parlor  of  the  Abbess,  the  person  for  whom 
all  was  done,  and  Paradise  seemed  opened  by  the  nymph, 
upon  her  car  of  light,  and  the  divine  children  peeping 
through  the  vines.  Sweet  soul  of  love !  I  should  weary 
of  you,  too ;  but  it  was  glorious  that  day. 

I  had  another  good  day,  too,  crossing  the  Apennines. 
The  young  crescent  moon  rose  in  orange  twilight,  just  as 
I  reached  the  highest  peak.  I  was  alone  on  foot;  I 
heard  no  sound  ;  I  prayed. 

At  Florence,  I  was  very  ill.  For  three  weeks,  my  life 
hung  upon  a  thread.  The  effect  of  the  Italian  climate 
on  my  health  is  not  favorable.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  received 
a  great  injury.  I  am  tired  and  woe- worn ;  often,  in  the 
bed,  I  wish  I  could  weep  my  life  away.  However,  they 
brought  me  gruel,  I  took  it,  and  after  a  while  rose  up 
again.  In  the  time  of  the  vintage,  I  went  alone  to 
Sienna.  This  is  a  real  untouched  Italian  place.  This 
excursion,  and  the  grapes,  restored  me  at  that  time. 

When  I  arrived  in  Rome,  I  was  at  first  intoxicated  to  be 
here.  The  weather  was  beautiful,  and  many  circumstan- 
ces combined  to  place  me  in  a  kind  of  passive,  childlike 
well-being.  That  is  all  over  now,  and,  with  this  year,  I 
enter  upon  a  sphere  of  my  destiny  so  difficult,  that  I,  at 
present,  see  no  way  out,  except  through  the  gate  of  death. 
It  is  useless  to  write  of  it ;  you  are  at  a  distance  and 
cannot  help  me; —whether  accident  or  angel  will,  I  have 
no  intimation.  I  have  no  reason  to  hope  I  shall  not  reap 
what  I  have  sown,  and  do  not.  Yet  how  I  shall  endure 


ROME.  233 

it  I  cannot  guess ;  it  is  all  a  dark,  sad  enigma.  The 
beautiful  forms  of  art  charm  no  more,  and  a  love,  in 
which  there  is  all  fondness,  but  no  help,  flatters  in  vain. 
I  am  all  alone ;  nobody  around  me  sees  any  of  this.  My 
numerous  friendly  acquaintances  are  troubled  if  they  see 
me  ill,  and  who  so  affectionate  and  kind  as  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  S.? 


TO    MADAME   ARCONATI. 

Rome,  Jan.  14,  1848.  — What  black  and  foolish  cal- 
umnies are  these  on  Mazzini !  It  is  as  much  for  his 
interest  as  his  honor  to  let  things  take  their  course,  at 
present.  To  expect  anything  else,  is  to  suppose  him 
base.  And  on  what  act  of  his  life  dares  any  one  found 
such  an  insinuation  ?  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  were 
annoyed  at  his  manner  of  addressing  the  Pope ;  but  to  me 
it  seems  that  he  speaks  as  he  should,  —  near  God  and 
beyond  the  tomb;  not  from  power  to  power,  but  from 
SOH!  to  soul,  without  .regard  to  temporal  dignities.  It 
must  be  admitted  that  the  etiquette,  Most  Holy  Father, 
&c.,  jars  with  this. 


TO  R.  w.  E. 

Rome,  March  14,  1848. — Mickiewicz  is  with  me  here, 
and  will  remain  some  time ;  it  was  he  I  wanted  to  see, 
more  than  any  other  person,  in  going  back  to  Paris,  and 
I  have  him  much  better  here.  France  itself  1  should  like 
to  see,  but  remain  undecided,  on  account  of  my  health, 
which  has  suffered  so  much,  this  winter,  that  I  must 
make  it  the  first  object  in  moving  for  the  summer.  One 

VOL.  ii.  20* 


234  EUROPE. 

physician  thinks  it  will  of  itself  revive,  when  once  the 
rains  have  passed,  which  have  now  lasted  from  16th 
December  to  this  day.  At  present,  I  am  not  able  to 
leave  the  fire,  or  exert  myself  at  all. 

In  all  the  descriptions  of  the  Roman  Carnival,  the  fact 
has  been  omitted  of  daily  rain.  I  felt,  indeed,  ashamed 
to  perceive  it,  when  no  one  else  seemed  to,  whilst  the 
open  windows  caused  me  convulsive  cough  and  head- 
ache. The  carriages,  with  their  cargoes  of  happy 
women  dressed  in  their  ball  dresses  and  costumes,  drove 
up  and  down,  even  in  the  pouring  rain.  The  two  hand- 
some contadine,  who  serve  me,  took  off  their  woollen 
gowns,  and  sat  five  hours  at  a  time,  in  the  street,  in 
white  cambric  dresses,  and  straw  hats  turned  up  with 
roses.  I  never  saw  anything  like  the  merry  good-humor 
of  these  people.  I  should  always  be  ashamed  to  com- 
plain of  anything  here.  But  I  had  always  looked 
forward  to  the  Roman  Carnival  as  a  time  when  I  could 
play  too ;  and  it  even  surpassed  my  expectations,  with 
its  exuberant  gayety  and  innocent  frolic,  but  I  was  un- 
able to  take  much  part.  The  others  threw  flowers  all 
day,  and  went  to  masked  balls  all  night;  but  I  went  out 
only  once,  in  a  carriage,  and  was  more  exhausted  with 
the  storm  of  flowers  and  sweet  looks  than  I.  could  be  by 
a  storm  of  hail.  I  went  to  the  German  Artists'  ball, 
where  were  some  pretty  costumes,  and  beautiful  music  ; 
and  to  the  Italian  masked  ball,  where  interest  lies  in 
intrigue. 

I  have  scarcely  gone  to  the  galleries,  damp  and  cold  as 
tombs;  or  to  the  mouldy  old  splendor  of  churches,  where, 
\)y  the  way,  they  are  just  wailing  over  the  theft  of  St. 


235 


Andrew's  head;  for  the  sake  of  the  jewels.  It  is  quite  a 
new  era  for  this  population  to  plunder  the  churches ;  but 
they  are  suffering  terribly,  and  Pio's  municipality  does,  as 
yet,  nothing. 


TO  w.  H.  c. 

Rome,  March,  29,  1848.  —  I  have  been  engrossed, 
stunned  almost,  by  the  public  events  that  have  succeeded 
one  another  with  such  rapidity  and  grandeur.  It  is  a  time 
such  as  I  always  dreamed  of,  and  for  long  secretly  hoped 
to  see.  I  rejoice  to  be  in  Europe  at  this  time,  and  shall 
return  possessed  of  a  great  history.  Perhaps  I  shall 
be  called  to  act.  At  present,  I  know  not  where  to  go, 
what  to  do.  War  is  everywhere.  I  cannot  leave  Rome, 
and  the  men  of  Rome  are  marching  out  every  day  into 
Lombardy.  The  citadel  of  Milan  is  in  the  hands  of  my 
friends,  Guerriere,  &c.,  but  there  may  be  need  to  spill 
much  blood  yet  in  Italy.  France  and  Germany  are  not 
in  such  a  state  that  I  can  go  there  now.  A  glorious 
flame  burns  higher  and  higher  in  the  heart  of  the 
nations. 

The  rain  was  constant  through  the  Roman  winter, 
falling  in  torrents  from  16th  December  to  19th  March. 
Now  the  Italian  heavens  wear  again  their  deep  blue, 
the  sun  is  glorious,  the  melancholy  lustres  are  stealing 
again  over  the  Campagna,  and  hundreds  of  larks  sing 
unwearied  above  its  ruins.  Nature  seems  in  sympathy 
with  the  great  events  that  are  transpiring.  How 
much  has  happened  since  I  wrote  !  —  the  resistance  of 
Sicily,  and  the  revolution  of  Naples;  now  the  fall  of 


236  EUROPE. 

Louis  Philippe;  and  Metternich  is  crushed  in  Austria. 
I  saw  the  Austrian  arms  dragged  through  the  streets 
here,  and  burned  in  the  Piazza  del  Popolo.  The 
Italians  embraced  one  another,  and  cried,  miracolo, 
Providenza!  the  Tribune  Ciceronachio  fed  the  flame 
with  fagots ;  Adam  Mickiewicz,  the  great  poet  of  Poland, 
long  exiled  from  his  country,  looked  on;  while  Polish 
women  brought  little  pieces  that  had  been  scattered  in  the 
street,  and  threw  into  the  flames.  When  the  double- 
headed  eagle  was  pulled  down  from  the  lofty  portal  of 
the  Palazzo  di  Venezia,  the  people  placed  there,  in  its 
stead,  one  of  white  and  gold,  inscribed  with  the  name, 
ALTA  ITALIA  ;  and  instantly  the  news  followed,  that  Mi- 
lan, Venice,  Modena,  and  Parma,  were  driving  out  their 
tyrants.  These  news  were  received  in  Rome  with  in- 
describable rapture.  Men  danced,  and  women  wept 
with  joy  along  the  street.  The  youths  rushed  to  enrol 
themselves  in  regiments  to  go  to  the  frontier.  In  the 
Colosseum,  their  names  were  received. 

Rome,  April  1,  1848. —  Yesterday,  on  returning  from 
Ostia,  I  find  the  official  news,  that  the  Viceroy  Ranieri 
has  capitulated  at  Verona;  that  Italy  is  free,  inde- 
pendent, and  one.  I  trust  this  will  prove  no  April 
foolery.  It  seems  too  good,  too  speedy  a  realization 
of  hope. 

Rome,  April  30,  1848.  —  It  is  a  time  such  as  I  al- 
ways dreamed  of;  and  that  fire  burns  in  the  hearts  of 
men  around  me  which  can  keep  me  warm.  Have  I 
something  to  do  here?  or  am  I  only  to  cheer  on  the  war- 
riors, and  after  write  the  history  of  their  deeds?  The 
fiist  is  all  I  have  done  yet,  but  many  have  blessed  me 


ROME.  237 

for  my  sympathy,  and  blest  me  by  the  action  it  im- 
pelled. 

My  private  fortunes  are  dark  and  tangled ;  my  strength 
to  govern  them  (perhaps  that  I  am  enervated  by  this 
climate)  much  diminished.  I  have  thrown  myself  on 
God,  and  perhaps  he  will  make  my  temporal  state  very 
tragical.  I  am  more  of  a  child  than  ever,  and  hate 
suffering  more  than  ever,  but  suppose  I  shall  live  with  it, 
if  it  must  come. 

I  did  not  get  your  letter,  about  having  the  rosary  blessed 

for  ,  before  I  left  Rome,  and  now,  I  suppose,  she 

would  not  wish  it,  as  none  can  now  attach  any  value  to 
the  blessing  of  Pius  IX.  Those  who  loved  him  can  no 
longer  defend  him.  It  has  become  obvious,  that  those 
first  acts  of  his  in  the  papacy  were  merely  the  result  of 
a  kindly,  good-natured  temperament;  that  he  had  not 
thought  to  understand  their  bearing,  nor  force  to  abide 
by  it.  He  seems  quite  destitute  of  moral  courage.  He 
is  not  resolute  either  on  the  wrong  or  right  side.  First, 
he  abandoned  the  liberal  party;  then,  yielding  to  the 
will  of  the  people,  and  uniting,  in  appearance,  with  a 
liberal  ministry,  he  let  the  cardinals  betray  it,  and  defeat 
the  hopes  of  Italy.  He  cried  peace,  peace  !  but  had  not  a 
word  of  blame  for  the  sanguinary  acts  of  the  King  of 
Naples,  a,  word  of  sympathy  for  the  victims  of  Lom- 
bardy.  Seizing  the  moment  of  dejection  in  the  nation, 
he  put  in  this  retrograde  ministry;  sanctioned  their  acts, 
daily  more  impudent;  let  them  neutralize  the  constitu- 
tion he  himself  had  given ;  and  when  the  people  slew  his 
minister,  and  assaulted  him  in  his  own  palace,  he  yielded 
anew ;  he  dared  not  die,  or  even  run  the  slight  risk,  — 
for  only  by  accident  could  he  have  perished.  His  per- 
son as  a  Pope  is  still  respected,  though  his  character  as 


a  man  is  despised.  All  the  people  compare  him  with 
Pius  VII.  saying  to  Ihe  French,  "Slay  me  if  you  will; 
I  cannot  yield,"  and  feel  the  difference. 

I  was  on  Monte  Cavallo  yesterday.  The  common 
people  were  staring  at  the  broken  windows  and  burnt 
door  of  the  palace  where  they  have  so  often  gone  to 
receive  a  blessing,  the  children  playing,  "  Sedia  Papale. 
Morte  ai  Cardinal^  e  morte  al  Papa!  " 

The  men  of  straw  are  going  down  in  Italy  every- 
where; the  real  men  rising  into  power.  Montanelli, 
Guerazzi,  Mazzini,  are  real  men;  their  influence  is  of 
character.  Had  we  only  been  born  a  little  later !  Maz- 
zini has  returned  from  his  seventeen  years'  exile,  "  to  see 
what  he  foresaw."  He  has  a  mind  far  in  advance  of  his 
times,  and  yet  Mazzini  sees  not  all. 

Rome,  May  7,  1848.  —  Good  and  loving  hearts  will 
be  unprepared,  and  for  a  time  must  suffer  much  from 
the  final  dereliction  of  Pius  IX.  to  the  cause  of  freedom. 
After  the  revolution  opened  in  Lombardy,  the  troops  of 
the  line  were  sent  thither ;  the  volunteers  rushed  to  ac- 
company them,  the  priests  preached  the  war  as  a  crusade, 
the  Pope  blessed  the  banners.  The  report  that  the  Aus- 
trians  had  taken  and  hung  as  a  brigand  one  of  the 
Roman  Civic  Guard,  —  a  well-known  artist  engaged  in 
the  war  of  Lombardy,  —  roused  the  people ;  and  they 
went  to  the  Pope,  to  demand  that  he  should  declare  war 
against  the  Austrians.  The  Pope  summoned  a  consis- 
tory, and  then  declared  in  his  speech  that  he  had  only 
intended  local  reforms;  that  he  regretted  the  misuse 
that  had  been  made  of  his  name ;  and  wound  up  by  la- 
menting the  war  as  offensive  to  the  spirit  of  religion.  A 
momentary  stupefaction,  followed  by  a  passion  of  indig- 


ROME.  239 

nation,  in  which  the  words  traitor  and  imbecile  were 
heard,  received  this  astounding  speech.  The  Pope  was 
besieged  with  deputations,  and,  after  two  days'  struggle, 
was  obliged  to  place  the  power  in  the  hands  of  persons 
most  opposed  to  him,  and  nominally  acquiesce  in  their 
proceedings. 

TO   R.  W.  E.   (in London}. 

Rome,  May  19,  1848.  —  I  should  like  to  return  with 
you,  but  I  have  much  to  do  and  learn  in  Europe  yet.  I 
am  deeply  interested  in  this  public  drama,  and  wish  to 
see  it  played  out.  Methinks  I  have  my  part  therein, 
either  as  actor  or  historian. 

I  cannot  marvel  at  your  readiness  to  close  the  book  of 
European  society.  The  shifting  scenes  entertain  poorly. 
The  flux  of  thought  and  feeling  leaves  some  fertilizing 
soil ;  but  for  me,  few  indeed  are  the  persons  I  should  wish 
to  see  again ;  nor  do  I  care  to  push  the  inquiry  further. 
The  simplest  and  most  retired  life  would  now  please  me, 
only  I  would  not  like  to  be  confined  to  it,  in  case  I  grew 
weary,  and  now  and  then  craved  variety,  for  exhilara- 
tion. I  want  some  scenes  of  natural  beauty,  and,  im- 
perfect as  love  is,  I  want  human  beings  to  love,  as  I 
suffocate  without.  For  intellectual  stimulus,  books 
would  mainly  supply  it,  when  wanted. 

Why  did  you  not  try  to  be  in  Paris  at  the  opening  of 
the  Assembly  ?  There  were  elements  worth  scanning. 


Rome,  May  20,  1848.  —  My  health  is  much  revived 
by  the  spring  here,  as  gloriously  beautiful  as  the  winter 


240  EUROPE. 

was  dreary.  We  know  nothing  of  spring  in  our  coun- 
try. Here  the  soft  and  brilliant  weather  is  unbroken, 
except  now  and  then  by  a  copious  shower,  which  keeps 
everything  fresh.  The  trees,  the  flowers,  the  bird-songs 
ai;e  in  perfection.  I  have  enjoyed  greatly  my  walks  in 
the  villas,  where  the  grounds  are  of  three  or  four  miles 
in  extent,  and  like  free  nature  in  the  wood-glades  and 
still  paths;  while  they  have  an  added  cha*rm  in  the 
music  of  their  many  fountains,  and  the  soft  gleam,  here 
and  there,  of  sarcophagus  or  pillar. 

I  have  been  a  few  days  at  Albano,  and  explored  its 
beautiful  environs  alone,  to  much  greater  advantage 
than  I  could  last  year,  in  the  carriage  with  my  friends. 

I  went,  also,  to  Frascati  and  Ostia,  with  an  English 
family,  who  had  a  good  carriage,  and  were  kindly,  in- 
telligent people,  who  could  not  disturb  the  Roman  land- 
scape. 

Now  I  am  going  into  the  country,  where  I  can  live 
very  cheaply,  even  keeping  a  servant  of  my  own,  with- 
out which  guard  I  should  not  venture  alone  into  the 
unknown  and  wilder  regions. 

I  have  been  so  disconcerted  by  my  Roman  winter, 
that  I  dare  not  plan  decisively  again.  The  enervating 
breath  of  Rome  paralyzes  my  body,  but  I  know  and 
love  her.  The  expression,  "  City  of  the  Soul,"  desig- 
nates her,  and  her  alone. 

TO    MADAME    ARCONATI. 

Rome,  May  27,  1848.  —  This  is  my  last  day  at 
Rome.  I  have  been  passing  several  days  at  Subiaco 
and  Tivoli,  and  return  again  to  the  country  to-morrow. 
These  scenes  of  natural  beauty  have  filled  my  heart,  and 


RIETI.  241 

increased,  if  possible,  my  desire  that  the  people  who 
have  this  rich  inheritance  may  no  longer  be  deprived  of 
its  benefits  by  bad  institutions. 

The  people  of  Subiaco  are  poor,  though  very  indus- 
trious, and  cultivating  every  inch  of  ground,  with  even 
English  care  and  neatness ;  —  so  ignorant  and  unculti- 
vated, while  so  finely  and  strongly  made  by  Nature. 
May  God  grant  now,  to  this  people,  what  they  need! 

An  illumination  took  place  last  night,  in  honor  of  the 
"  Illustrious  Gioberti."  He  is  received  here  with  great 
triumph,  his  carriage  followed  with  shouts  of  "  Viva 
Gioberti,  morte  ai  Jesuiti  !  "  which  must  be  pain  to  the 
many  Jesuits,  who,  it  is  said,  still  linger  here  in  disguise. 
His  triumphs  are  shared  by  Mamiani  and  Orioli,  self- 
trumpeted  celebrities,  self-constituted  rulers  of  the  Roman 
states,  —  men  of  straw,  to  my  mind,  whom  the  fire 
already  kindled  will  burn  into  a  handful  of  ashes. 

I  sit  in  my  obscure  corner,  and  watch  the  progress  of 
events.  It  is  the  position  that  pleases  me  best,  and,  I 
believe,  the  most  favorable  one.  Everything  confirms 
me  in  my  radicalism ;  and,  without  any  desire  to  hasten 
matters,  indeed  with  surprise  to  see  them  rush  so  like  a 
torrent,  I  seem  to  see  them  all  tending  to  realize  my  own 
hopes. 

My  health  and  spirits  now  much  restored,  I  am  begin- 
ning to  set  down  some  of  my  impressions.  I  am  going 
into  the  mountains,  hoping  there  to  find  pure,  strengthen- 
ing air,  and  tranquillity  for  so  many  days  as  to  allow  me 
to  do  something. 

TO    K.  F.  F . 

Rieti,  July  1,  1848.  —  Italy  is  as  beautiful  as  even  I 
hoped,  and  I  should  wish  to  stay  here  several  years,  if  I 

VOL.    II.  21 


242  EUROPE. 

had  a  moderate  fixed  .income.  One  wants  but  little 
money  here,  and  can  have  with  it  many  of  the  noblest 
enjoyments.  I  should  have  been  very  glad  if  fate  would 
allow  me  a  few  years  of  congenial  life,  at  the  end  of  not 
a  few  of  struggle  and  suffering.  But  I  do  not  hope  it; 
my  fate  will  be  the  same  to  the  close,  —  beautiful  gifts 
shown,  and  then  withdrawn,  or  offered  on  conditions 
that  make  acceptance  impossible. 

TO   MADAME   ARCONATI. 

Corpus  Domini,  June  22,  1848.  —  I  write  such  a 
great  number  of  letters,  having  not  less  than  a  hundred 
correspondents,  that  it  seems,  every  day,  as  if  I  had  just 
Vritten  to  each.  There  is  no  one,  surely,  this  side  of  the 
salt  sea,  with  whom  I  wish  more  to  keep  up  the  inter- 
change of  thought  than  with  you. 

I  believe,  if  you  could  know  my  heart  as  God  knows 
it,  and  see  the  causes  that  regulate  my  conduct,  you 
would  always  love  me.  But  already,  in  absence,  I  have 
lost,  for  the  present,  some  of  those  who  were  dear  to  me, 
by  failure  of  letters,  or  false  report.  After  sorrowing 
much  about  a  falsehood  told  me  of  a  dearest  friend,  I 
found  his  letter  at  Torlonia's,  which  had  been  there  ten 
months,  and,  duly  received,  would  have  made  all  right. 
There  is  something  fatal  in  my  destiny  about  correspond- 
ence. 

But  I  will  say  no  more  of  this ;  only  the  loss  of  that 
letter  to  you,  at  such  an  unfortunate  time,  — just  when 
I  most  wished  to  seem  the  loving  and  grateful  friend  I 
was,  —  made  me  fear  it  might  be  my  destiny  to  lose  you 
too.  But  if  any  cross  event  shall  do  me  this  ill  turn  on 


,     RIETI.  243 

earth;  we  shall  meet  again  in^hat  clear  state  of  intelli- 
gence which  men  call  heaven. 

I  see  by  the  journals  that  you  have  not  lost  Monta- 
nelli.  That  noble  mind  is  still  spared  to  Italy.  The 
Pope's  heart  is  incapable  of  treason ;  but  he  has  fallen 
short  of  the  office  fate  assigned  him. 

I  am  no  bigoted  Republican,  yet  I  think  that  form  of 
government  will  eventually  pervade  the  civilized  world. 
Italy  may  not  be  ripe  for  it  yet,  but  I  doubt  if  she  finds 
peace  earlier;  and  this  hasty  annexation  of  Lombardy 
to  the  crown  of  Sardinia  seems,  to  me,  as  well  as  I  can 
judge,  an  act  unworthy  and  unwise.  Base,  indeed,  the 
monarch,  if  it  was  needed,  and  weak  no  less  than  base; 
for  he  was  already  too  far  engaged  in  the  Italian  cause 
to  retire  with  honor  or  wisdom. 

I  am  here,  in  a  lonely  mountain  home,  writing  the 
narrative  of  my  European  experience.  To  this  I  devote 
great  part  of  the  day.  Three  or  four  hours  I  pass  in  the 
open  air,  on  donkey  or  on  foot.  When  I  have  exhausted 
this  spot,  perhaps  I  shall  try  another.  Apply  as  I  may, 
it  will  take  three  months,  at  least,  to  finish  my  book. 
It  grows  upon  me. 

TO  R.  w.  E. 

Rieti,  July  11,  1848.  — Once  I  had  resolution  to  face 
my  difficulties  myself,  and  try  to  give  only  what  was 
pleasant  to  others ;  but  now  that  my  courage  has  fairly 
given  way,  and  the  fatigue  of  life  is  beyond  my  strength, 
I  do  not  prize  myself,  or  expect  others  to  prize  me. 

Some  years  ago,  I  thought  you  very  unjust,  because 
you  did  not  lend  full  faith  to  my  spiritual  experiences; 
but  I  see  you  were  quite  right.  I  thought  I  had  tasted 


244  *•    EUROPE. 

of  the  true  elixir,  and  that  the  want  of  daily  bread,  or 
the  pangs  of  imprisonment,  would  never  make  me  a  com- 
plaining beggar.  A  widow,  I  expected  still  to  have  the 
cruse  full  for  others.  Those  were  glorious  hours,  and 
angels  certainly  visited  me;  but  there  must  have  been 
too  much  earth,  —  too  much  taint  of  weakness  and  folly, 
so  that  baptism  did  not  suffice.  I  know  now  those  same 
things,  but  at  present  they  are  words,  not  living  spells. 

I  hear,  at  this  moment,  the  clock  of  the  Church  del 
Purgatorio  telling  noon  in  this  mountain  solitude.  Snow 
yet  lingers  on  these  mountain-tops,  after  forty  days  of 
hottest  sunshine,  last  night  broken  by  a  few  clouds,  pref- 
atory to  a  thunder  storm  this  morning.  It  has  been  so 
hot  here,  that  even  the  peasant  in  the  field  says,  "Non 
porro  piu  resistere"  and  slumbers  in  the  shade,  rather 
than  the  sun.  I  love  to  see  their  patriarchal  ways  of 
guarding  the  sheep  and  tilling  the  fields.  They  are  a 
simple  race.  Remote  from  the  corruptions  of  foreign 
travel,  they  do  not  ask  for  money,  but  smile  upon  and 
bless  me  as  I  pass,  —  for  the  Italians  love  me ;  they  say 
I  am  so  "  simpatica."  I  never  see  any  English  or  Ameri- 
cans, and  now  think  wholly  in  Italian;  only  the  surgeon 
who  bled  me,  the  other  day,  was  proud  to  speak  a  little 
French,  which  he  had  learned  at  Tunis  !  The  ignorance 
of  this  people  is  amusing.  I  am  to  them  a  divine  visit- 
ant, —  an  instructive  Ceres,  —  telling  them  wonderful 
tales  of  foreign  customs,  and  even  legends  of  the  lives  of 
their  own  saints.  They  are  people  whom  I  could  love 
and  live  with.  Bread  and  grapes  among  them  would 
suffice  me. 


ROME.     *  245 


TO   HER   MOTHER. 

Rome,  Nov.  16,  1848. —  *  *  *  Of  other  circumstances 
which  complicate  my  position  I  cannot  write.  Were 
you  here,  I  would  confide  in  you  fully,  and  have  more 
than  once,  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  recited  to  you 
those  most  strange  and  romantic  chapters  in  the  story 
of  my  sad  life.  At  one  time  when  I  thought  I  might 
die,  I  empowered  a  person,  who  has  given  me,  as  far  as 
possible  to  him,  the  aid  and  sympathy  of  a  brother,  to 
communicate  them  to  you,  on  his  return  to  the  United 
States.  But  now  I  think  we  shall  meet  again,  and  I 
am  sure  you  will  always  love  your  daughter,  and  will 
know  gladly  that  in  all  events  she  has  tried  to  aid  and 
striven  never  to  injure  her  fellows.  In  earlier  days,  I 
dreamed  of  doing  and  being  much,  but  now  am  content 
with  the  Magdalen  to  rest  my  plea  hereon,  "  She  has 
loved  much." 

You,  loved  mother,  keep  me  informed,  as  you  have, 
of  important  facts,  especially  the  worst.  The  thought 
of  you,  the  knowledge  of  your  angelic  nature,  is  always 
one  of  my  greatest  supports.  Happy  those  who  have 
such  a  mother!  Myriad  instances  of  selfishness  and 
corruption  of  heart  cannot  destroy  the  confidence  in 
human  nature. 

I  am  again  in  Rome,  situated  for  the  first  time  entirely 
to  my  mind.  I  have  but  one  room,  but  large;  and 
everything  about  the  bed  so  gracefully  and  adroitly  dis- 
posed that  it  makes  a  beautiful  parlor,  and  of  course  I 
pay  much  less.  I  have  the  sun  all  day,  and  an  excellent 
chimney.  It  is  very  high  and  has  pure  air,  and  the 
most  beautiful  view  all  around  imaginable.  Add,  that 

VOL.  n.  21* 


246  „  EUROPE. 

I  am  with  the  dearest,  delightful  old  couple  one  can 
imagine,  quick,  prompt,  and  kind,  sensible  and  con- 
tented. Having  no  children,  they  like  to  regard  me  and 
the  Prussian  sculptor,  my  neighbor,  as  such ;  yet  are  too 
delicate  and  too  busy  ever  to  intrude.  In  the  attic, 
dwells  a  priest,  who  insists  on  making  my  fire  when 
Antonia  is  away.  To  be  sure,  he  pays  himself  for  his 
trouble,  by  asking  a  great  many  questions.  The  stories 
below  are  occupied  by  a  frightful  Russian  princess  with 
moustaches,  and  a  footman  who  ties  her  bonnet,  for  her ; 
and  a  fat  English  lady,  with  a  fine  carriage,  who  gives 
all  her  money  to  the  church,  and  has  made  for  the  house 
a  terrace  of  flowers  that  would  delight  you.  Antonia 
has  her  flowers  in  a  humble  balcony,  her  birds,  and 
an  immense  black  cat ;  always  addressed  by  both  hus- 
band and  wife  as  "  Amoretto,"  (little  love !) 

The  house  looks  out  on  the  Piazza  Barberini,  and  I 
see  both  that  palace  and  the  Pope's.  The  scene  to-day 
has  been  one  of  terrible  interest.  The  poor,  weak  Pope 
has  fallen  more  and  more  under  the  dominion  of  the 
cardinals,  till  at  last  all  truth  was  hidden  from  his 
eyes.  He  had  suffered  the  minister,  Rossi,  to  go  on, 
tightening  the  reins,  and,  because  the  people  preserved  a 
sullen  silence,  he  thought  they  would  bear  it.  Yester- 
day, the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  illegally  prorogued,  was 
opened  anew.  Rossi,  after  two  or  three  most  unpopular 
measures,  had  the  imprudence  to  call  the  troops  of  the 
line  to  defend  him,  instead  of  the  National  Guard.  On 
the  14th,  the  Pope  had  invested  him  with  the  privileges 
of  a  Roman  citizen :  (he  had  renounced  his  country 
when  an  exile,  and  returned  to  it  as  ambassador  of 
Louis  Philippe.)  This  position  he  enjoyed  but  one  day. 
Yesterday,  as  he  descended  from  his  carriage,  to  enter 


HOME.  247 

the  Chamber,  the  crowd  howled  and  hissed;  then 
pushed  him,  and,  as  he  turned  his  head  in  consequence, 
a  sure  hand  stabbed  him  in  the  back.  He  said  no  word, 
but  died  almost  instantly  in  the  arms  of  a  cardinal. 
The  act  was  undoubtedly  the  result  of  the  combination 
of  many,  from  the  dexterity  with  which  it  was  accom- 
plished, and  the  silence  which  ensued.  Those  who  had 
not  abetted  beforehand  seemed  entirely  to  approve  when 
done.  The  troops  of  the  line,  on  whom  he  had  relied, 
remained  at  their  posts,  and  looked  coolly  on.  In  the 
evening,  they  walked  the  streets  with  the  people,  singing, 
"Happy  the  hand  which  rids  the  world  of  a  tyrant!" 
Had  Rossi  lived  to  enter  the  Chamber,  he  would  have 
seen  the  most  terrible  and  imposing  mark  of  denun- 
ciation known  in  the  history  of  nations, — the  whole 
house,  without  a  single  exception,  seated  on  the  benches 
of  opposition.  The  news  of  his  death  was  received  by 
the  deputies  with  the  same  cold  silence  as  by  the  people. 
For  me,  I  never  thought  to  have  heard  of  a  violent 
death  with  satisfaction,  but  this  act  affected  me  as  one 
of  terrible  justice. 

To-day,  all  the  troops  and  the  people  united  and  went 
to  the  Quirinal  to  demand  a  change  of  measures.  They 
found  the  Swiss  Guard  drawn  out,  and  the  Pope  dared 
not  show  himself.  They  attempted  to  force  the  door  of 
his  palace,  to  enter  his  presence,  and  the  guard  fired.  I 
saw  a  man  borne  by  wounded.  The  drum  beat  to  call 
out  the  National  Guard.  The  carriage  of  Prince  Bar- 
berini  has  returned  with  its  frightened  inmates  and  liv- 
eried retinue,  and  they  have  suddenly  barred  up  the 
court-yard  gate.  Antonia,  seeing  it,  observes,  "  Thank 
Heaven,  we  are  poor,  we  have  nothing  to  fear  ! "  This 


248  EUROPE. 

is  the  echo  of  a  sentiment  which  will  soon  be  universal 
in  Europe. 

Never  feel  any  apprehensions  for  my  safety  from  such 
causes.  There  are  those  who  will  protect  me,  if  neces- 
sary, and,  besides,  I  am  on  the  conquering  side.  These 
events  have,  to  me,  the  deepest  interest.  These  days 
are  what  I  always  longed  for,  —  were  I  only  free  from 
private  care !  But,  when  the  best  and  noblest  want 
bread  to  give  to  the  cause  of  liberty,  I  can  just  not  de- 
mand that  of  them ;  their  blood  they  would  give  me. 

You  cannot  conceive  the  enchantment  of  this  place. 
So  much  I  suffered  here  last  January  and  February,  I 
thought  myself  a  little  weaned;  but,  returning,  my 
heart  swelled  even  to  tears  with  the  cry  of  the  poet :  — 

"0,  Rome,  my  country,  city  of  the  soul !  " 

Those  have  not  lived  who  have  not  seen  Rome. 
Warned,  however,  by  the  last  winter,  I  dared  not  rent 
my  lodgings  for  the  year.  I  hope  I  am  acclimated.  I 
have  been  through  what  is  called  the  grape-cure,  much 
more  charming,  certainly,  than  the  water-cure.  At 
present  I  am  very  well ;  but,  alas  !  because  I  have  gone 
to  bed  early,  and  done  very  little.  I  do  not  know  if  I 
can  maintain  any  labor.  As  to  my  life,  I  think  that  it 
is  not  the  will  of  Heaven  it  should  terminate  very  soon. 
I  have  had  another  strange  escape.  I  had  taken  pas- 
sage in  the  diligence  to  come  to  Rome ;  two  rivers  were 
to  be  passed,  —  the  Turano  and  the  Tiber,  —  but  passed 
by  good  bridges,  and  a  road  excellent  when  not  broken 
unexpectedly  by  torrents  from  the  mountains.  The 
diligence  sets  out  between  three  and  four  in  the  morn- 
ing, long  before  light.  The  director  sent  me  word  that 


ROME.  249 

the  Marchioness  Crispoldi  had  taken  for  herself  and 
family  a  coach  extraordinary,  which  would  start  two 
hours  later,  and  that  I  could  have  a  place  in  that,  if 
I  liked ;  so  I  accepted.  The  weather  had  been  beauti- 
ful, but,  on  the  eve  of  the  day  fixed  for  my  departure, 
the  wind  rose,  and  the  rain  fell  in  torrents.  I  observed 
that  the  river  which  passed  my  window  was  much 
swollen,  and  rushed  with  great  violence.  In  the  night,  I 
heard  its  voice  still  stronger,  and  felt  glad  I  had  not  to 
set  out  in  the  dark.  I  rose  with  twilight,  and  was 
expecting  my  carriage,  and  wondering  at  its  delay, 
when  I  heard,  that  the  great  diligence,  several  miles 
below,  had  been  seized  by  a  torrent;  the  horses  were 
up  to  their  necks  in  water,  before  any  one  dreamed  of 
the  danger.  The  postilion  called  on  all  the  saints,  and 
threw  himself  into  the  water.  The  door  of  the  diligence 
could  not  be  opened,  and  the  passengers  forced  them- 
selves, one  after  another,  into  the  cold  water,  —  dark 
too.  Had  I  been  there  I  had  fared  ill ;  a  pair  of  strong 
men  were  ill  after  it,  though  all  escaped  with  life. 

For  several  days,  there  was  no  going  to  Rome;  but,  at 
last,  we  set  forth  in  two  great  diligences,  with  all  the 
horses  of  the  route.  For  many  miles,  the  mountains 
and  ravines  were  covered  with  snow ;  I  seemed  to  have 
returned  to  my  own  country  and  climate.  Few  miles 
passed,  before  the  conductor  injured  his  leg  under  the 
wheel,  and  I  had  the  pain  of  seeing  him  suffer  all  the 
way,  while  "Blood  of  Jesus,"  "Souls  of  Purgatory," 
was  the  mildest  beginning  of  an  answer  to  the  jeers  of 
the  postilions  upon  his  paleness.  We  stopped  at  a  mis- 
erable osteria,  in  whose  cellar  we  found  a  magnificent 
remain  of  Cyclopean  architecture,  — as  indeed  in  Italy 
one  is  paid  at  every  step,  for  discomfort  or  danger,  by 


250  EUROPE. 

some  precious  subject  of  thought.  We  proceeded  very 
slowly,  and  reached  just  at  night  a  solitary  little  inn, 
which  marks  the  site  of  the  ancient  home  of  the  Sabine 
virgins,  snatched  away  to  become  the  mothers  of  Rome. 
We  were  there  saluted  with  the  news  that  the  Tiber, 
also,  had  overflowed  its  banks,  and  it  was  very  doubtful 
if  we  could  pass.  But  what  else  to  do  1  There  were 
no  accommodations  in  the  house  for  thirty  people,  or 
even  for  three,  and  to  sleep  in  the  carriages,  in  that  wet 
air  of  the  marshes,  was  a  more  certain  danger  than  to 
attempt  the  passage.  So  we  set  forth;  the  moon, 
almost  at  the  full,  smiling  sadly  on  the  ancient  gran- 
deurs, then  half  draped  in  mist,  then  drawing'over  her 
face  a  thin  white  veil.  As  we  approached  the  Tiber, 
the  towers  and  domes  of  Rome  could  be  seen,  like  a 
cloud  lying  low  on  the  horizon.  The  road  and  the 
meadows,  alike  under  water,  lay  between  us  and  it, 
one  sheet  of  silver.  The  horses  entered ;  they  behaved 
nobly;  we  proceeded,  every  moment  uncertain  if  the 
water  would  not  become  deep ;  but  the  scene  was  beau- 
tiful, and  I  enjoyed  it  highly.  I  have  never  yet  felt 
afraid  when  really  in  the  presence  of  danger,  though 
sometimes  in  its  apprehension. 

At  last  we  entered  the  gate;  the  diligence  stopping 
to  be  examined,  I  walked  to  the  gate  of  Villa  Ludovisi, 
and  saw  its  rich  shrubberies  of  myrtle,  and  its  statues 
so  pale  and  eloquent  in  the  moonlight. 

Is  it  not  cruel  that  I  cannot  earn  six  hundred  dollars 
a  year,  living  here?  I  could  live  on  that  well,  now  I 
know  Italy.  Where  I  have  been,  this  summer,  a  great 
basket  of  grapes  sells  for  one  cent! — delicious  salad, 
Enough  for  three  or  four  persons,  one  cent,  —  a  pair  of 
chickens,  fifteen  cents.  Foreigners  cannot  live  so,  but 


ROME.  251 

I  could,  now  that  I  speak  the  language  fluently,  and 
know  the  price  of  everything.  Everybody  loves,  and 
wants  to  serve  me,  and  I  cannot  earn  this  pitiful  sum  to 
learn  and  do  what  I  want. 

Of  course,  I  wish  to  see  America  again ;  but  in  my 
own  time,  when  I  am  ready,  and  not  to  weep  over  hopes 
destroyed  and  projects  unfulfilled. 

My  dear  friend,  Madame  Arconati,  has  shown  me  gen- 
erous love:  —  a  contadina,  whom  I  have  known  this 
summer,  hardly  less.  Every  Sunday,  she  came  in  her 
holiday  dress,  —  beautiful  corset  of  red  silk  richly  em- 
broidered, rich  petticoat,  nice  shoes  and  stockings,  and 
handsome  coral  necklace,  on  one  arm  an  immense  basket 
of  grapes,  in  the  other  a  pair  of  live  chickens,  to  be  eaten 
by  me  for  her  sake,  ("per  amore  Tmo,")  a»d  wanted  no 
present,  no  reward;  it  was,  as  she  said,  "for  the  honor 
and  pleasure  of  her  acquaintance."  The  old  father  of 
the  family  .never  met  me  but  he  took  off  his  hat,  and  said, 
"Madame,  it  is  to  me  a  consolation  to  see  you."  Are 
there  not  sweet  flowers  of  affection  in  life,  glorious  mo- 
ments, great  thoughts  1  —  why  must  they  be  so  dearly 
paid  for  ? 

Many  Americans  have  shown  me  great  and  thoughtful 

kindness,  and  none  more  so  than  W.  S and  his  wife. 

They  are  now  in  Florence,  but  may  return.  I  do  not 
know  whether  I  shall  stay  here  or  not ;  shall  be  guided 
much  by  the  state  of  my  health. 

All  is  quieted  now  in  Rome.  Late  at  night  the  Pope 
had  to  yield,  but  not  till  the  door  of  his  palace  was  half 
burnt,  and  his  confessor  killed.  This  man,  Parma,  pro- 
voked his  fate  by  firing  on  the  people  from  a  window. 
It  seems  the  Pope  never  gave  order  to  fire ;  his  guard 
acted  from  a  sudden  impulse  of  their  own.  The  new 


252  EUROPE. 

ministry  chosen  are  little  inclined  to  accept.  It  is  almost 
impossible  for  any  one  to  act,  unless  the  Pope  is  stripped 
of  his  temporal  power,  and  the  hour  for  that  is  not  yet 
quite  ripe ;  though  they  talk  more  and  more  of  proclaim- 
ing the  Republic,  and  even  of  calling  my  friend  Mazzini. 

If  I  came  home  at  this  moment,  I  should  feel  as  if 
forced  to  leave  my  own  house,  my  own  people,  and  the 
hour  which  I  had  always  longed  for.  If  I  do  come  in 
this  way,  all  I  can  promise  is  to  plague  other  people  as 
little  as  possible.  My  own  plans  and  desires  will  be 
postponed  to  another  world. 

Do  not  feel  anxious  about  me.  Some  higher  power 
leads  me  through  strange,  dark,  thorny  paths,  broken  at 
times  by  glades  opening  down  into  prospects  of  sunny 
beauty,  into  which  I  am  not  permitted  to  enter.  If  God 
disposes  for  us,  it  is  not  for  nothing.  This  I  can  say, 
my  heart  is  in  some  respects  better,  it  is  kinder  and  more 
humble.  Also,  my  mental  acquisitions  have  certainly 
been  great,  however  inadequate  to  my  desires. 


Rome,  Nov.  23, 1848.  —  Mazzini  has  stood  alone  in  Italy, 
on  a  sunny  height,  far  above  the  stature  of  other  men.  He 
has  fought  a  great  fight  against  folly,  compromise,  and 
treason ;  steadfast  in  his  convictions,  and  of  almost  mirac- 
ulous energy  to  sustain  them,  is  he.  He  has  foes;  and 
at  this  moment,  while  he  heads  the  insurrection  in  the 
Valtellina,  the  Roman  people  murmur  his  name,  and 
long  to  call  him  here. 

How  often  rings  in  my  ear  the  consolatory  word 
of  Korner,  after  many  struggles,  many  undeceptions, 
'•  Though  the  million  suffer  shipwreck,  yet  noble  hearts 


ROME.  253 

I  grieve  to  say,  the  good-natured  Pio  has  shown  him- 
self utterly  derelict,  alike  without  resolution  to  abide  by 
the  good  or  the  ill.  He  is  now  abandoned  and  despised 
by  both  parties.  The  people  do  not  trust  his  word,  for 
they  know  he  shrinks  from  the  danger,  and  shuts  the 
door  to  pray  quietly  in  his  closet,  whilst  he  knows  the 
cardinals  are  misusing  his  name  to  violate  his  pledges. 
The  cardinals,  chased  from  Rome,  talk  of  electing  an 
anti-Pope ;  because,  when  there  was  danger,  he  has 
always  yielded  to  the  people,  and  they  say  he  has  over- 
stepped his  prerogative,  and  broken  his  papal  oath.  No 
one  abuses  him,  for  it  is  felt  that  in  a  more  private  sta- 
tion he  would  have  acted  a  kindly  part;  but  he  has 
failed  of  so  high  a  vocation,  and  balked  so  noble  a  hope, 
that  no  one  respects  him  either.  Who  would  have 
believed,  a  year  ago,  that  the  people  would  assail  his 
palace  1  I  was  on  Monte  Cavallo  yesterday,  and  saw 
the  broken  windows,  the  burnt  doors,  the  walls  marked 
by  shot,  just  beneath  the  loggia,  on  which  we  have  seen 
him  giving  the  benediction.  But  this  would  never  have 
happened,  if  his  guard  had  not  fired  first  on  the  people. 
It  is  true  it  was  without  his  order,  but,  under  a  different 
man,  the  Swiss  would  never  have  dared  to  incur  such  a 
responsibility. 

Our  old  acquaintance,  Sterbini,  has  risen  to  the  min- 
istry. He  has  a  certain  influence,  from  his  consistency 
and  independence,  but  has  little  talent. 

Of  me  you  wish  to  know;  but  there  is  little  I  can 
tell  you  at  this  distance.  I  have  had  happy  hours, 
learned  much,  suffered  much,  and  outward  things  have 
not  gone  fortunately  with  me.  I  have  had  glorious 
hopes,  but  they  are  overclouded  now,  and  the  future 
looks  darker  than  ever,  indeed,  quite  impossible  to  my 

VOL.  ii.  22 


254  EUROPE. 

steps.  I  have  no  hope,  unless  that  God  will  show  me 
some  way  I  do  not  know  of  now ;  but  I  do  not  wish  to 
trouble  you  with  more  of  this. 


Rome,  Dec.  9,  1848.— As  to  Florence  itself,  I  do  not 
like  it,  with  the  exception  of  the  galleries  and  churches, 
and  Michel  Angelo's  marbles.  I  do  not  like  it,  for  the 
reason  you  e?o,  because  it  seems  like  home.  It  seems 
a  kind  of  Boston  to  me,  —  the  same  good  and  the  same 
ill ;  I  have  had  enough  of  both.  But  I  have  so  many 
dear  friends  in  Boston,  that  I  must  always  wish  to 
go  there  sometimes;  and  there  are  so  many  precious 
objects  of  study  in  Florence,  that  a  stay  of  several 
months  could  not  fail  to  be  full  of  interest.  Still,  the 
spring  must  be  the  time  to  be  in  Florence ;  there  are  so 
many  charming  spots  to  visit  in  the  environs,  much 
nearer  than  those  you  go  to  in  Rome,  within  scope  of 
an  afternoon's  drive.  I  saw  them  only  when  parched' 
with  sun  and  covered  with  dust.  In  the  spring  they 
must  be  very  beautiful. 

December ',  1848. — I  felt  much  what  you  wrote,  "  if  it 
were  well  with  my  heart"  How  seldom  it  is  that  a  mor- 
tal is  permitted  to  enjoy  a  paradisaical  scene,  unhaunted 
'oy  some  painful  vision  from  the  past  or  the  future !  With 
me,  too,  dark  clouds  of  care  and  sorrow  have  sometimes 
blotted  out  the  sunshine.  I  have  not  lost  from  my  side 
an  only  sister,  but  have  been  severed  from  some  visions 
still  so  dear,  they  looked  almost  like  hopes.  The  future 
seems  too  difficult  for  me.  I  have  been  as  happy  as  I 
could,  and  I  feel  that  this  summer,  as  last,  had  I  been 


ROME.  255 

with  my  country  folks,  the  picture  of  Italy  would  not 
have  been  so  lively  to  me.  Now  I  have  been  quite  off 
the  beaten  track  of  travel,  have  seen,  thought,  spoken, 
dreamed  only  what  is  Italian.  I  have  learned  much, 
received  many  strong  and  clear  impressions.  While 
among  the  mountains,  I  was  for  a  good  while  quite 
alone,  except  for  occasional  chat  with  the  contadine,  who 
wanted  to  know  if  Pius  IX.  was  not  un  gran  carbonaro ! 
—  a  reputation  which  he  surely  ought  to  have  forfeited 
by  this  time.  About  me  they  were  disturbed  :  "  E  sempre 
sola  soletta"  they  said,  "  eh  perche?" 

Later,  I  made  one  of  those  accidental  acquaintances,  such 
as  I  have  spoken  of  to  you  in  my  life  of  Lombardy,  which 
may  be  called  romantic :  two  brothers,  elderly  men,  the 
last  of  a  very  noble  family,  formerly  lords  of  many  castles, 
still  of  more  than  one ;  both  unmarried,  men  of  great  polish 
and  culture.  None  of  the  consequences  ensued  that  would 
in  romances :  they  did  not  any  way  adopt  me,  nor  give 
me  a  casket  of  diamonds,  nor  any  of  their  pictures,  among 
'  which  were  originals  by  several  of  the  greatest  masters, 
nor  their  rich  cabinets,  nor  miniatures  on  agate,  nor 
carving  in  wood  and  ivory.  They  only  showed  me  their 
things,  and  their  family  archives  of  more  than  a  hundred 
volumes,  (containing  most  interesting  documents  about 
Poland,  where  four  of  their  ancestors  were  nuncios,) 
manuscript  letters  from  Tasso,  and  the  like.  With  com- 
ments on  these,  and  legendary  lore  enough  to  furnish 
Cooper  or  Walter  Scott  with  a  thousand  romances,  they 
enriched  me;  unhappily,  I  shall  never  have  the  strength 
or  talent  to  make  due  use  of  it.  I  was  sorry  to  leave 
them,  for  now  I  have  recrossed  the  frontier  into  the 
Roman  States.  I  will  not  tell  you  where,  —  I  know  not 
that  I  shall  ever  tell  where,  —  these  months  have  been 


passed.  The  great  Goethe  hid  thus  in  Italy;  "Then," 
said  he,  "I  did  indeed  feel  alone,  —  when  no  former 
friend  could  form  an  idea  where  I  was."  Why  should 

not and  I  enjoy  this  fantastic  luxury  of  incognito 

also,  when  we  can  so  much  more  easily  ? 

I  will  not  name  the  place,  but  I  will  describe  it.  The 
rooms  are  spacious  and  airy ;  the  loggia  of  the  sleeping 
room  is  rude,  but  it  overhangs  a  lovely  little  river,  with 
its  hedge  of  willows.  Opposite  is  a  large  and  rich  vine- 
yard ;  on  one  side  a  ruined  tower,  on  the  other  an  old 
casino,  with  its  avenues  of  cypress,  give  human  interest 
to  the  scene.  A  cleft  amid  the  mountains  full  of  light 
leads  on  the  eye  to  a  soft  blue  peak,  very  distant.  At 
night  the  young  moon  trembles  in  the  river,  and  its  soft 
murmur  soothes  me  to  sleep ;  it  needs,  for  I  have  had 
lately  a  bad  attack  upon  the  nerves,  and  been  obliged  to 
stop  writing  for  the  present.  I  think  I  shall  stay  here 
some  time,  though  I  suppose  there  are  such  sweet  places 
all  over  Italy,  if  one  only  looks  for  one's  self.  Poor, 
beautiful  Italy !  how  she  has  been  injured  of  late  !  It 
is  dreadful  to  see  the  incapacity  and  meanness  of  those 
to  whom  she  had  confided  the  care  of  her  redemption. 

I  have  thus  far  passed  this  past  month  of  fine  weather 
most  delightfully  in  revisiting  my  haunts  of  the  autumn 
before.  Then,  too,  I  was  uncommonly  well  and  strong; 
it  was  the  golden  period  of  my  Roman  life.  The  expe- 
rience what  long  confinement  may  be  expected  after, 
from  the  winter  rains,  has  decided  me  never  to  make  my 
hay  when  the  sun  shines :  i.  e.,  to  give  no  fine  day  to 
books  and  pens. 

The  places  of  interest  I  am  nearest  now  are  villas 
Albani  and  Ludovisi,  and  Santa  Agnese,  St.  Lorenzo, 
and  the  vineyards  near  Porta  Maggiore.  I  have  passed 


ROME.  257 

one  day  in  a  visit  to  Torre  dei  Schiavi  and  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  another  on  Monte  Mario,  both  Rome  and  the 
Campagna-day  golden  in  the  mellowest  lustre  of  the 
Italian  sun.  *  *  *  But  to  you  I  may  tell,  that  I  always 
go  with  Ossoli,  the  most  congenial  companion  I  ever 
had  for  jaunts  of  this  kind.  We  go  out  in  the  morning, 
carrying  the  roast  chestnuts  from  Rome;  the  bread  and 
wine  are  found  in  some  lonely  little  osteria ;  and  so  we 
dine;  and  reach  Rome  again,  just  in  time  to  see  it,  from 
a  little  distance,  gilded  by  the  sunset. 

This  moon  having  been  so  clear,  and  the  air  so  warm, 
we  have  visited,  on  successive  evenings,  all  the  places 
we  fancied:  Monte  Cavallo,  now  so  lonely  and  aban- 
doned, —  no  lights  there  but  moon  and  stars,  —  Trinita 
de'  Monti,  Santa  Maria  Maggiore,  and  the  Forum.  So 
now,  if  the  rain  must  come,  or  I  be  driven  from  Rome, 
I  have  all  the  images  fair  and  fresh  in  my  mind. 

About  public  events,  why  remain  ignorant  1  Take  a 
daily  paper  in  the  house.  The  Italian  press  has  recov- 
ered from  the  effervescence  of  childish  spirits ;  —  you  can 
now  approximate  to  the  truth  from  its  reports.  There 
are  many  good  papers  now  in  Italy.  Whatever  repre- 
sents the  Montanelli  ministry  is  best  for  you.  That 
gives  the  lead  now.  I  see  good  articles  copied  from  the 
"Alba." 

TO    MADAME   ARCONATI. 

Rome,  Feb.  5,  1849.  —  I  am  so  delighted  to  get  your 
letter,  that  I  must  answer  on  the  instant.  I  try  with  all 
my  force  to  march  straight  onwards,  —  to  answer  the 
claims  of  the  day ;  to  act  out  my  feeling  as  seems  right 
at  the  time,  and  not  heed  the  consequences ;  —  but  in 

VOL.  ir.  22* 


258  EUROPE. 

my  affections  I  am  tender  and  weak;  where  I  have 
really  loved,  a  barrier,  a  break,  causes  me  great  suf- 
fering. I  read  in  your  letter  that  I  am  still  dear  to  you 
as  you  to  me.  I  always  felt,  that  if  we  had  passed  more 
time  together,  —  if  the  intimacy,  for  which  there  was 
ground  in  the  inner  nature,  had  become  consolidated,  — 
no  after  differences  of  opinion  or  conduct  could  have 
destroyed,  though  they  might  interrupt  its  pleasure. 
But  it  was  of  few  days'  standing, —  our  interviews  much 
interrupted.  I  felt  as  if  I  knew  you  much  better  than 
you  could  me,  because  I  had  occasion  to  see  you 
amid  your  various  and  habitual  relations.  I  was  afraid 
you  might  change,  or  become  indifferent;  now  I  hope 
not. 

True,  I  have  written,  shall  write,  about  the  affairs  of 
Italy,  what  you  will  much  dislike,  if  ever  you  see  it.  I 
have  done,  may  do,  many  things  that  would  be  very 
unpleasing  to  you ;  yet  there  is  a  congeniality,  I  dare 
to  say,  pure,  and  strong,  and  good,  at  the  bottom  of 
-  the  heart,  far,  far  deeper  than  these  differences,  that 
would  always,  on  a  real  meeting,  keep  us  friends. 
For  me,  I  could  never  have  but  one  feeling  towards 
you. 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  I  enjoy  a  full  communion  with 
the  spirit  of  Rome.  Last  winter,  I  had  here  many 
friends ;  now  all  are  dispersed,  and  sometimes  1  long  to 
exchange  thoughts  with  a  friendly  circl'e ;  but  generally 
I  am  better  content  to  live  thus: — the  impression  made 
by  all  the  records  of  genius  around  is  more  unbroken ; 
I  begin  to  be  very  familiar  with  them.  The  sun  shines 
always,  when  last  winter  it  never  shone.  I  feel  strong; 
I  can  go  everywhere  on  foot.  I  pass  whole  days  abroad ; 


ROME.  259 

sometimes  I  take  a  book,  but  seldom  read  it :  —  why 
should  I,  when  every  stone  talks  ? 

In  spring,  I  shall  go  often  out  of  town.  I  have  read 
"  La  Rome  Souterraine"  of  Didier,  and  it  makes  me 
wish  to  see  Ardea  and  Nettuno.  Ostia  is  the  only  one 
of  those  desolate  sites  that  I  know  yet.  I  study  some- 
times Niebuhr,  and  other  books  about  Rome,  but  not  to 
any  great  profit. 

In  the  circle  of  my  friends,  two  have  fallen.  One  a 
person  of  great  wisdom,  strength,  and  calmness.  She 
was  ever  to  me  a  most  tender  friend,  and  one  whose 
sympathy  I  highly  valued.  Like  you  by  nature  and 
education  conservative,  she  was  through  thought  liberal. 
With  no  exuberance  or  passionate  impulsiveness  her- 
self, she  knew  how  to  allow  for  these  in  others.  The 
other  was  a  woman  of  my  years,  of  the  most  precious 
gifts  in  heart  and  genius.  She  had  also  beauty  and 
fortune.  She  died  at  last  of  weariness  and  intellectual 
inanition.  She  never,  to  any  of  us,  her  friends,  hinted 
her  sufferings.  But  they  were  obvious  in  her  poems, 
which,  with  great  dignity,  expressed  a  resolute  but  most 
mournful  resignation. 

TO  R.  F.  F. 

Rome,  Feb.  23,  1849.  —  It  is  something  if  one  can 
get  free  foot-hold  on  the  earth,  so  as  not  to  be  jostled  out 
of  hearing  the  music,  if  there  should  be  any  spirits  in 
the  air  to  make  such. 

For  my  part,  I  have  led  rather  too  lonely  a  life  of  late. 
Before,  it  seemed  as  if  too  many  voices  of  men  startled 
away  the  inspirations;  but  having  now  lived  eight 
months  much  alone,  I  doubt  that  good  has  come  of  it, 


260  EUROPE. 

and  think  to  return,  and  go  with  others  for  a  little.  1 
have  realized  in  these  last  days  the  thought  of  Goethe, — 
"  He  who  would  in  loneliness  live,  ah  !  he  is  soon  alone. 
Each  one  loves,  each  one  lives,  and  leaves  him  to  his 
pain."  I  went  away  and  hid,  all  summer.  Not  content 
with  that,  I  said,  on  returning  to  Rome,  I  must  be  busy 
and  receive  people  little.  They  have  taken  me  at  my 
word,  and  hardly  one  comes  to  see  me.  Now,  if  I  want 
play  and  prattle,  I  shall  have  to  run  after  them.  It  is 
fair  enough  that  we  all,  in  turn,  should  be  made  to  feel 
our  need  of  one  another. 

Never  was  such  a  winter  as  this.  Ten  weeks  now 
of  unbroken  sunshine  and  the  mildest  breezes.  Of 
course,  its  price  is  to  be  paid.  The  spring,  usually 
divine  here,  with  luxuriant  foliage  and  multitudinous 
roses,  will  be  all  scorched  and  dusty.  There  is  fear, 
too,  of  want  of  food  for  the  poor  Roman  state. 

I  pass  my  days  in  writing,  walking,  occasional  visits 
to  the  galleries.  I  read  little,  except  the  newspapers; 
these  take  up  an  hour  or  two  of  the  day.  I  own,  my 
thoughts  are  quite  fixed  on  the  daily  bulletin  of  men 
and  things.  I  expect  to  write  the  history,  but  because 
it  is  so  much  in  my  heart.  If  you  were  here,  I  rather 
think  you  would  be  impassive,  like  the  two  most 
esteemed  Americans  I  see.  They  do  not  believe  in  the 
sentimental  nations.  Hungarians,  Poles,  Italians,  are 
too  demonstrative  for  them,  too  fiery,  too  impressible. 
They  like  better  the  loyal,  slow-moving  Germans ;  even 
the  Russian,  with  his  dog's  nose  and  gentlemanly  ser- 
vility, pleases  them  better  than  my  people.  There  is  an 
antagonism  of  race. 


ROME.  261 


TO   E.    S. 

,  June  6,  1849.  —  The  help  I  needed  was  exter- 
nal, practical.  I  knew  myself  all  the  difficulties  and 
pains  of  my  position ;  they  were  beyond  present  relief; 
from  sympathy  I  could  struggle  with  them,  but  had  not 
life  enough  left,  afterwards,  to  be  a  companion  of  any 
worth.  To  be  with  persons  generous  and  refined,  who 
would  not  pain;  who  would  sometimes  lend  a  helping 
hand  across  the  ditches  of  this  strange  insidious  marsh, 
was  all  I  could  have  now,  and  this  you  gave. 

On  Sunday,  from  our  loggia,  I  witnessed  a  terrible,  a 
real  battle.  It  began  at  four  in  the  morning;  it  lasted  to 
the  last  gleam  of  light.  The  musket-fire  was  almost 
unintermitted ;  the  roll  of  the  cannon,  especially  from  St. 
Angelo,  most  majestic.  As  all  passed  at  Porta  San  Pan- 
crazio  and  Villa  Pamfili,  I  saw  the  smoke  of  every  dis- 
charge, the  flash  of  the  bayonets;  with  a  glass  could 
see  the  men.  Both  French  and  Italians  fought  with  the 
most  obstinate  valor.  The  French  could  not  use  their 
heavy  cannon,  being  always  driven  away  by  the  legions 

Garibaldi  and ,  when  trying  to  find  positions  for 

them.  The  loss  on  our  side  is  about  three  hundred 
killed  and  wounded;  theirs  must  be  much  greater.  In 
one  casino  have  been  found  seventy  dead  bodies  of 
theirs.  I  find  the  wounded  men  at  the  hospital  in  a 
transport  of  indignation.  The  French  soldiers  fought 
so  furiously,  that  they  think  them  false  as  their  general, 
and  cannot  endure  the  remembrance  of  their  visits, 
during  the  armistice,  and  talk  of  brotherhood.  You  will 
have  heard  how  all  went :  —  how  Lesseps,  after  appear- 
ing here  fifteen  days  as  plenipotentiary ',  signed  a  treaty 


262  EUROPE. 

not  dishonorable  to  Rome ;  then  Oudinot  refused  to  ratify 
it,  saying,  the  plenipotentiary  had  surpassed  his  powers : 
Lesseps  runs  back  to  Paris,  and  Oudinot  attacks  :  —  an 
affair  alike  infamous  for  the  French  from  beginning  to 
end.  The  cannonade  on  one  side  has  continued  day 
and  night,  (being  full  moon,)  till  this  morning;  they 
seeking  to  advance  or  take  other  positions,  the  Romans 
firing  on  them.  The  French  throw  rockets  into  the 
town;  one  burst  in  the  court-yard  of  the  hospital,  just 
as  I  arrived  there  yesterday,  agitating  the  poor  sufferers 
very  much ;  they  said  they  did  not  want  to  die  like  mice 
in  a  trap. 


Rome,  March  9,  1849.  —  Last  night,  Mazzini  came  to 
see  me.  You  will  have  heard  how  he  was  called  to 
Italy,  and  received  at  Leghorn  like  a  prince,  as  he  is ; 
unhappily,  in  fact,  the  only  one,  the  only  great  Italian. 
It  is  expected,  that,  if  the  republic  lasts,  he  will  be  Pres- 
ident. He  has  been  made  a  Roman  citizen,  and  elected 
to  the  Assembly;  the  labels  bearing,  in  giant  letters, 
"  Giuseppe  Mazzini,  ciitadino  Romano"  are  yet  up  all 
over  Rome.  He  entered  by  night,  on  foot,  to  avoid 
demonstrations,  no  doubt,  and  enjoy  the  quiet  of  his 
own  thoughts,  at  so  great  a  moment.  The  people  went 
under  his  windows  the  next  night,  and  called  him  out  to 
speak ;  but  I  did  not  know  about  it.  Last  night,  I  heard 
a  ring;  then  somebody  speak  my  name ;  the  voice  struck 
upon  me  at  once.  He  looks  more  divine  than  ever, 
after  all  his  new,  strange  sufferings.  He  asked  after  all 
of  you.  He  stayed  two  hours,  and  we  talked,  though 
rapidly,  of  everything.  He  hopes  to  come  often,  but 


ROME.  £63 

the  crisis  is  tremendous,  and  all  will  come  on  him ;  since, 
if  any  one  can  save  Italy  from  her  foes,  inward  and  out- 
ward, it  will  be  he.  But  he  is  very  doubtful  whether 
this  be  possible ;  the  foes  are  too  many,  too  strong,  too 
subtle.  Yet  Heaven  helps  sometimes.  I  only  grieve  I 
cannot  aid  him ;  freely  would  I  give  my  life  to  aid  him, 
only  bargaining  for  a  quick  death.  I  don't  like  slow 
torture.  I  fear  that  it  is  in  reserve  for  him,  to  survive 
defeat.  True,  he  can  never  be  utterly  defeated ;  but  to 
see  Italy  bleeding,  prostrate  once  more,  will  be  very 
dreadful  for  him. 

He  has  sent  me  tickets,  twice,  to  hear  him  speak  in 
the  Assembly.  It  was  a  fine,  commanding  voice.  But, 
when  he  finished,  he  looked  very  exhausted  and  melan- 
choly. He  looks  as  if  the  great  battle  he  had  fought 
had  been  too  much  for  his  strength,  and  that  he  was 
only  sustained  by  the  fire  of  the  soul. 

All  this  I  write  to  you,  because  you  said,  when  I  was 
suffering  at  leaving  Mazzini, —  "You  will  meet  him  in 
heaven."  This  I  believe  will  be,  despite  all  my  faults. 

[In  April,  1849,  Margaret  was  appointed,  by  the 
"Roman  Commission  for  the  succor  of  the  wounded," 
to  the  charge  of  the  hospital  of  the  Fatc-Bene  Fratelli ; 
the  Princess  Belgioioso  having  charge  of  the  one. 
already  opened.  The  following  is  a  copy  of  the 
original  letter  from  the  Princess,  which  is  written  in 
English,  announcing  the  appointment] 

Comitato  di  Soccorso  Pel  Feriti,  ) 
April  30,  1849.  \ 

Dear  Miss  Fuller :  — 

You  are  named  Regolatrice  of  the  Hospital  of  the 
Fate-Eene  Fratelli.  Go  there  at  twelve,  if  the  alarm 


264  EUROPE. 

I 

bell  has  not  rung  before.     When  you  arrive  there,  you 
will  receive  all  the  women  coming  for  the  wounded,  and 
give  them  your  directions,  so  that  you  are  sure  to  have 
a  certain  number  of  them  night  and  day. 
May  God  help  us. 

CHRISTINE  TRIVULZE, 

of  Belgioioso. 
Miss  Fuller,  Piazza  Barberini,  No.  60. 

TO   R.  W.  E. 

Rome,  June  10,  1849. — I  received  your  letter  amid 
the  round  of  cannonade  and  musketry.  It  was  a  ter- 
rible battle  fought  here  from  the  first  till  the  last  light 
of  day.  I  could  see  all  its  progress  from  my  balcony. 
The  Italians  fought  like  lions.  It  is  a  truly  heroic  spirit 
that  animates  them.  They  make  a  stand  here  for  honor 
and  their  rights,  with  little  ground  for  hope  that  they  can 
resist,  now  they  are  betrayed  by  France. 

Since  the  30th  April.  I  go  almost  daily  to  the  hospitals, 
and,  though  I  have  suffered,  —  for  I  had  no  idea  before, 
how  terrible  gunshot- wounds  and  wound-fever  are,  — 
yet  I  have  taken  pleasure,  and  great  pleasure,  in  being 
with  the  men ;  there  is  scarcely  one  who  is  not  moved 
by  a  noble  spirit.  Many,  especially  among  the  Lom- 
bards, are  the  flower  of  the  Italian  youth.  When  they 
begin  to  get  better,  I  carry  them  books  and  flowers; 
they  read,  and  we  talk. 

The  palace  of  the  Pope,  on  the  Quirinal,  is  now  used 
for  convalescents.  In  those  beautiful  gardens,  I  walk 
with  them,  —  one  with  his  sling,  another  with  his 
crutch.  The  gardener  plays  off  all  his  water-works 


ROME.  265 

for  the  defenders  of  the  country,  and  gathers  flowers  for 
me,  their  friend. 

A  day  or  two  since,  we  sat  in  the  Pope's  little  pavilion, 
where  he  used  to  give  private  audience.  The  sun  was 
going  gloriously  down  over  Monte  Mario,  where  gleamed 
the  white  tents  of  the  French  light-horse  among  the 
trees.  The  cannonade  was  heard  at  intervals.  Two 
bright-eyed  boys  sat  at  our  feet,  and  gathered  up  eagerly 
every  word  said  by  the  heroes  of  the  day.  It  was  a 
beautiful  hour,  stolen  from  the  midst  of  ruin  and  sor- 
row ;  and  tales  were  told  as  full  of  grace  and  pathos  as 
in  the  gardens  of  Boccaccio,  only  in  a  very  different 
spirit,  —  with  noble  hope  for  man,  with  reverence  for 
woman. 

The  young  ladies  of  the  family,  very  young  girls, 
were  filled  with  enthusiasm  for  the  suffering,  wounded 
patriots,  and  they  wished  to  go  to  the  hospital  to  give 
their  services.  Excepting  the  three  superintendents, 
none  but  married  ladies  were  permitted  to  serve  there, 
but  their  services  were  accepted.  Their  governess  then 
wished  to  go  too,  and,  as  she  could  speak  several  lan- 
guages, she  was  admitted  to  the  rooms  of  the  wounded 
soldiers,  to  interpret  for  them,  as  the  nurses  knew  nothing 
but  Italian,  and  many  of  these  poor  men  were  suffering, 
because  they  could  not  make  their  wishes  known.  Some 
are  French,  some  German,  and  many  Poles.  Indeed,  I 
am  afraid  it  is  too  true  that  there  were  comparatively 
but  few  Romans  among  them.  This  young  lady  passed 
several  nights  there. 

Should  I  never  return,  —  and  sometimes  I  despair  of 
doing  so,  it  seems  so  far  off,  so  difficult,  I  am  caught  in 
such  a  net  of  ties  here,  —  if  ever  you  know  of  my  life 
here,  I  think  you  will  only  wonder  at  the  constancy 

VOL.  ii.  23 


266  EUROPE. 

with  which  I  have  sustained  myself;  the  degree  of 
profit  to  which,  amid  great  difficulties,  I  have  put  the 
time,  at  least  in  the  way  of  observation.  Meanwhile, 
love  me  all  you  can ;  let  me  feel,  that,  amid  the  fearful 
agitations  of  the  world,  there  are  pure  hands,  with 
healthful,  even  pulse,  stretched  out  toward  me,  if  I  claim 
their  grasp. 

I  feel  profoundly  for  Mazzini ;  at  moments  I  am 
tempted  to  say,  "  Cursed  with  every  granted  prayer," 
—  so  cunning  is  the  daemon.  He  is  become  the  inspiring 
soul  of  his  people.  He  saw  Rome,  to  which  all  his 
hopes  through  life  tended,  for  the  first  time  as  a  Roman 
citizen,  and  to  become  in  a  few  days  its  ruler.  He  has 
animated,  he  sustains  her  to  a  glorious  effort,  which,  if  it 
fails,  this*  time,  will  not  in  the  age.  His  country  will  be 
free.  Yet  to  me  it  would  be  so  dreadful  to  cause  all 
this  bloodshed,  to  dig  the  graves  of  such  martyrs. 

Then  Rome  is  being  destroyed;  her  glorious  oaks; 
her  villas,  haunts  of  sacred  beauty,  that  seemed  the 
possession  of  the  world  forever,  —  the  villa  of  Raphael, 
the  villa  of  Albani,  home  of  Winkelmann,  and  the  best 
expression  of  the  ideal  of  modern  Rome,  and  so  many 
other  sanctuaries  of  beauty, — all  must  perish,  lest  a 
foe  should  level  his  musket  from  their  shelter.  /  could 
not,  could  not ! 

I  know  not,  dear  friend,  whether  I  ever  shall  get 
home  across  that  great  ocean,  but  here  in  Rome  I  shall 
no  longer  wish  to  live.  O,  Rome,  my  country  !  could  I 
imagine  that  the  triumph  of  what  I  held  dear  was  to 
heap  such  desolation  on  thy  head ! 

Speaking  of  the  republic,  you  say,  do  not  I  wish  Italy 
had  a  great  man?  Mazzini  is  a  great  man.  In  mind, 
a  great  poetic  statesman ;  in  heart,  a  lover ;  in  action, 


ROME.  267 

decisive  and  full  of  resource  as  Caesar.  Dearly  I  love 
Mazzini.  He  came  in,  just  as  I  had  finished  the  first 
letter  to  you.  His  soft,  radiant  look  makes  melancholy 
music  in  my  soul ;  it  consecrates  my  present  life,  that, 
like  the  Magdalen,  I  may,  at  the  important  hour,  shed 
all  the  consecrated  ointment  on  his  head.  There  is  one, 
Mazzini,  who  understands  thee  well ;  who  knew  thee  no 
less  when  an  object  of  popular  fear,  than  now  of  idol- 
atry; and  who,  if  the  pen  be  not  held  too  feebly,  will 
help  posterity  to  know  thee  too. 

TO  w.  H.  c. 

Rome,  July  8,  1849.  —  I  do  not  yet  find  myself  tran- 
quil and  recruited  from  the  painful  excitements  of  these 
last  days.  But,  amid  the  ruined  hopes  of  Rome,  the 
shameful  oppressions  she  is  beginning  to  suffer,  amid 
these  noble,  bleeding  martyrs,  my  brothers,  I  cannot  fix 
my  thoughts  on  anything  else. 

I  write  that  you  may  assure  mother  of  my  safety, 
which  in  the  last  days  began  to  be  seriously  imperilled. 
Say,  that  as  soon  as  I  can  find  means  of  conveyance, 
without  an  expense  too  enormous,  I  shall  go  again  into 
the  mountains.  There  I  shall  find  pure,  bracing  air, 
and  I  hope  stillness,  for  a  time.  Say,  she  need  feel  no 
anxiety,  if  she  do  not  hear  from  me  for  some  time.  I 
may  feel  indisposed  to  write,  as  I  do  now ;  my  heart  is 
too  full. 

Private  hopes  of  mine  are  fallen  with  the  hopes  of 
Italy.  I  have  played  for  a  new  stake,  and  lost  it.  Life 
looks  too  difficult.  But  for  the  present  I  shall  try  to 
wave  all  thought  of  self  and  renew  my  strength. 

After  the  attempt  at  revolution  in  France  failed,  could 


268  EUROPE. 

I  have  influenced  Mazzini,  I  should  have  prayed  him  to 
capitulate,  and  yet  I  feel  that  no  honorable  terms  can 
be  made  with  such  a  foe,  and  that  the  only  way  is  never 
to  yield ;  but  the  sound  of  the  musketry,  the  sense  that 
men  were  perishing  in  a  hopeless  contest,  had  become 
too  terrible  for  my  nerves.  I  did  not  see  Mazzini,  the 
last  two  weeks  of  the  republic.  When  the  French 
entered,  he  walked  about  the  streets,  to  see  how  the 
people  bore  themselves,  and  then  went  to  the  house  of  a 
friend.  In  the  upper  chamber  of  a  poor  house,  with 
his  life-long  friends,  —  the  Modenas,  —  I  found  him. 
Modena,  who  abandoned  not  only  what  other  men  hold 
dear, — home,  fortune,  peace, — but  also  endured,  with- 
out the  power  of  using  the  prime  of  his  great  artist- 
talent,  a  ten  years'  exile  in  a  foreign  land;  his  wife  every 
way  worthy  of  him,  —  such  a  woman  as  I  am  not. 

Mazzini  had  suffered  millions  more  than  I  could;  he 
had  borne  his  fearful  responsibility ;  he  had  let  his  dear- 
est friends  perish ;  he  had  passed  all  these  nights  with- 
out sleep;  in  two  short  months,  he  had  grown  old;  all 
the  vital  juices  seemed  exhausted;  his  eyes  were  all 
blood-shot;  his  skin  orange;  flesh  he  had  none;  his 
hair  was  mixed  with  white;  his  hand  was  painful  to 
the  touch ;  but  he  had  never  flinched,  never  quailed ; 
had  protested  in  the  last  hour  against  surrender;  sweet 
and  calm,  but  full  of  a  more  fiery  purpose  than  ever ; 
in  him  I  revered  the  hero,  and  owned  myself  not  of  that 
mould. 

You  say  truly,  I  shall  come  home  humbler.  God 
grant  it  may  be  entirely  humble  !  In  future,  while  more 
than  ever  deeply  penetrated  with  principles,  and  the 
need  of  the  martyr  spirit  to  sustain  them,  I  will  ever 


RIETI.  269 

own  that  there  are  few  worthy,  and  that  I  am  one  of 
the  least. 

A  silken  glove  might  be  as  g^ood  a  gauntlet  as  one  of 
steel,  but  I,  infirm  of  mood,  turn  sick  even  now  as  I 
think  of  the  past. 

July,  1849. — I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  endured  in 
leaving  Rome;  abandoning  the  wounded  soldiers;  know- 
ing that  there  is  no  provision  made  for  them,  when  they 
rise  from  the  beds  where  they  have  been  thrown  by  a 
noble  courage,  where  they  have  suffered  with  a  noble 
patience.  Some  of  the  poorer  men,  who  rise  bereft  even 
of  the  right  arm, — one  having  lost  both  the  right  arm 
and  the  right  leg, — I  could  have  provided  for  with  a 
small  sum.  Could  I  have  sold  my  hair,  or  blood  from 
my  arm,  I  would  have  done  it.  Had  any  of  the  rich 
Americans  remained  in  Rome,  they  would  have  given  it 
to  me ;  they  helped  nobly  at  first,  in  the  service  of  the 
hospitals,  when  there  was  far  less  need ;  but  they  had 
all  gone.  What  would  I  have  given  that  I  could  have 
spoken  to  one  of  the  Lawrences,  or  the  Phillipses ;  they 
could  and  would  have  saved  the  misery.  These  poor 
men  are  left  helpless  in  the  power  of  a  mean  and  vin- 
dictive foe.  You  felt  so  oppressed  in  the  slave-states ; 
imagine  what  I  felt  at  seeing  all  the  noblest  youth,  all 
the  genius  of  this  dear  land,  again  enslaved. 

TO  w.  H.  c. 

Rieti,  Aug.  28,  1849.  —  You  say,  you  are  glad  I  have 
had  this  great  opportunity  for  carrying  out  my  prin- 
ciples. Would  it  were  so !  I  found  myself  inferior  in 
courage  and  fortitude  to  the  occasion.  I  knew  not  how 

VOL.  n.  23* 


270  EUROPE. 

to  bear  the  havoc  and  anguish  incident  to  the  struggle 
for  these  principles.  I  rejoiced  that  it  lay  not  with  me 
to  cut  down  the  trees,  to  destroy  the  Elysian  gardens,  for 
the  defence  of  Rome;  I  do  not  know  that  I  could  have 
done  it.  And  the  sight  of  these  far  nobler  growths,  the 
beautiful  young  men,  mown  down  in  their  stately  prime, 
became  too  much  for  me.  I  forget  the  great  ideas,  to 
sympathize  with  the  poor  mothers,  who  had  nursed 
their  precious  forms,  only  to  see  them  all  lopped  and 
gashed.  You  say,  I  sustained  them ;  often  have  they 
sustained  my  courage :  one,  kissing  the  pieces  of  bone 
that  were  so  painfully  extracted  from  his  arm,  hanging 
them  round  his  neck  to  be  worn  as  the  true  relics  of 
to-day;  mementoes  that  he  also  had  done  and  borne 
something  for  his  country  and  the  hopes  of  humanity. 
One  fair  young  man,  who  is  made  a  cripple  for  life, 
clasped  my  hand  as  he  saw  me  crying  over  the  spasms 
I  could  not  relieve,  and  faintly  cried,  "Viva  PItalia." 
" Think  only,  cara  bona  donna"  said  a  poor  wounded 
soldier,  "  that  I  can  always  wear  my  uniform  on  festas, 
just  as  it  is  now,  with  the  holes  where  the  balls  went 
through,  for  a  memory."  "God  is  good;  God  knows," 
they  often  said  to  me,  when  I  had  not  a  word  to  cheer 
them. 

THE    WIFE   AND   MOTHER.* 

Beneath  the  ruins  of  the  Roman  Republic,  how  many 
private  fortunes  were  buried !  and  among  these  victims 
was  Margaret.  In  that  catastrophe,  were  swallowed  up 
hopes  sacredly  cherished  by  her  through  weary  months, 
at  the  risk  of  all  she  most  prized. 

*  The  first  part  of  this  chapter  Is  edited  by  R.  W.  E.  ;  the  remainder 
by  W.  H.  C. 


THE    WIFE    AND    MOTHER.  271 

Soon  after  the  entrance  of  the  French,  she  wrote  thus, 
to  the  resident  Envoy'of  the  United  States: 

My  dear  Mr.  Cass,  —  I  beg  you  to  come  and  see  me, 
and  give  me  your  counsel,  and,  if  need  be,  your  aid,  to 
get  away  from  Rome.  From  what  I  hear  this  morning, 
I  fear  we  may  be  once  more  shut  up  here ;  and  I  shall 
die,  to  be  again  separated  from  what  I  hold  most  dear. 
There  are,  as  yet,  no  horses  on  the  way  we  want  to  go, 
or  we  should  post  immediately. 

You  may  feel,  like  me,  sad,  in  these  last  moments,  to 
leave  this  injured  Rome.  So  many  noble  hearts  I  aban- 
don here,  whose  woes  I  have  known !  I  feel,  if  I  could 
not  aid,  I  might  soothe.  But  for  my  child,  I  would  not 
go,  till  some  men,  now  sick,  know  whether  they  shall 
live  or  die. 

Her  child  !  Where  was  he  ?  In  RIETI,  —  at  the  foot 
of  the  Umbrian  Apennines,  —  a  day's  journey  to  the 
north-east  of  Rome.  Thither  Margaret  escaped  with 
her  husband,  and  thence  she  wrote  the  following  letter : 

Dearest  Mother,  —  I  received  your  letter  a  few  hours 
before  leaving  Rome.  Like  all  of  yours,  it  refreshed  me, 
and  gave  me  as  much  satisfaction  as  anything  could,  at 
that  sad  time.  Its  spirit  is  of  eternity,  and  befits  an 
epoch  when  wickedness  and  perfidy  so  impudently  tri- 
umph, and  the  best  blood  of  the  generous  and  honorable 
is  poured  out  like  water,  seemingly  in  vain. 

I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  suffered  to  abandon  the 
wounded  to  the  care  of  their  mean  foes ;  to  see  the  young 
men,  that  were  faithful  to  their  vows,  hunted  from  their 
homes,  —  hunted  like  wild  beasts ;  denied  a  refuge  in 


272  EUROPE. 

every  civilized  land.  Many  of  those  I  loved  are  sunk  to 
the  bottom  of  the  sea,  by  Austrian  cannon,  or  will  be 
shot.  Others  are  in  penury,  grief,  and  exile.  May  God 
give  due  recompense  for  all  that  has  been  endured  ! 

My  mind  still  agitated,  and  my  spirits  worn  out,  I 
have  not  felt  like  writing  to  any  one.  Yet  the  magnifi- 
cent summer  does  not  smile  quite  in  vain  for  me.  Much 
exercise  in  the  open  air,  living  much  on  milk  and  fruit, 
have  recruited  my  health,  and  I  am  regaining  the  habit 
of  sleep,  which  a  month  of  nightly  cannonade  in  Rome 
had  destroyed. 

Receiving,  a  few  days  since,  a  packet  of  letters  from 
America,  I  opened  them  with  more  feeling  of  hope  and 
good  cheer,  than  for  a  long  time  past.  The  first  words 
that  met  my  eye  were  these,  in  the  hand  of  Mr.  Greeley : 
—  "  Ah,  Margaret,  the  world  grows  dark  with  us !  You 
grieve,  for- Rome  is  fallen;  —  I  mourn,  for  Pickie  is 
dead." 

I  have  shed  rivers  of  tears  over  the  inexpressibly 
affecting  letter  thus  begun.  One  would  think  I  might 
have  become  familiar  enough  with  images  of  death  and 
destruction ;  yet  somehow  the  image  of  Pickie's  little 
dancing  figure,  lying,  stiff  and  stark,  between  his  par- 
ents, has  made  me  weep  more  than  all  else.  There 
was  little  hope  he  could  do  justice  to  himself,  or  lead  a 
happy  life  in  so  perplexed  a  world;  but  never  was  a 
character  of  richer  capacity,  —  never  a  more  charming- 
child.  To  me  he  was  most  dear,  and  would  always 
have  been  so.  Had  he  become  stained  with  earthly 
faults,  I  could  never  have  forgotten  what  he  was  when 
fresh  from  the  soul's  home,  and  what  he  was  to  me 
when  my  soul  pined  for  sympathy,  pure  and  unalloyed. 


THE    WIFE    AND    MOTHER.  273 

The  three  children  I  have  seen  who  were  fairest  in  my 
eyes,  and  gave  most  promise  of  the  future,  were  Waldo, 
Pickie,  Hermann  Clarke ;  —  all  nipped  in  the  bud.  End- 
less thoughts  has  this  given  me,  and  a  resolve  to  seek  the 
realization  of  all  hopes  and  plans  elsewhere,  which  re- 
solve will  weigh  with  me  as  much  as  it  can  weigh  before 
the  silver  cord  is  finally  loosed.  Till  then,  Earth,  our 
mother,  always  finds  strange,  unexpected  ways  to  draw 
us  back  to  her  bosom,  —  to  make  us  seek  anew  a  nutri- 
ment which  has  never  failed  to  cause  us  frequent  sick- 
ness. 

This  brings  me  to  the  main  object  of  my  present  let- 
ter, —  a  piece  of  intelligence  about  myself,  which  I  had 
hoped  I  might  be  able  to  communicate  in  such  a  way  as 
to  give  you  pleasure.  That  I  cannot,  —  after  suffering 
much  in  silence  with  that  hope,  —  is  like  the  rest  of  my 
earthly  destiny. 

The  first  moment,  it  may  cause  you  a  pang  to  know 
that  your  eldest  child  might  long  ago  have  been  ad- 
dressed by  another  name  than  yours,  and  has  a  little  son 
a  year  old. 

But,  beloved  mother,  do  not  feel  this  long.  I  do  as- 
sure you,  that  it  was  only  great  love  for  you  that  kept 
me  silent.  I  have  abstained  a  hundred  times,  when 
your  sympathy,  your  counsel,  would  have  been  most 
precious,  from  a  wish  not  to  harass  you  with  anxiety. 
Even  now  I  would  abstain,  but  it  has  become  necessary, 
on  account  of  the  child,  for  us  to  live  publicly  and  per- 
manently together;  and  we  have  no  hope,  in  the  present 
state  of  Italian  affairs,  that  we  can  do  it  at  any  better 
advantage,  for  several  years,  than  now. 

My  husband  is  a  Roman,  of  a  noble  but  now  impover- 


274  EUROPE. 

ished  house.  His  mother  died  when  he  was  an  infant , 
his  father  is  dead  since  we  met,  leaving  some  property, 
but  encumbered  with  debts,  and  in  the  present  state  of 
Rome  hardly  available,  except  by  living  there.  He  has 
three  older  brothers,  all  provided  for  in  the  Papal  service, 
—  one  as  Secretary  of  the  Privy  Chamber,  the  other  two 
as  members  of  the  Guard  Noble.  A  similar  career 
would  have  been  opened  to  him,  but  he  embraced  liberal 
principles,  and,  with  the  fall  of  the  Republic,  has  lost 
all,  as  well  as  the  favor  of  his  family,  who  all  sided 
with  the  Pope.  Meanwhile,  having  been  an  officer  in  the 
Republican  service,  it  was  best  for  him  to  leave  Rome. 
He  has  taken  what  little  money  he  had,  and  we  plan  to 
live  in  Florence  for  the  winter.  If  he  or  I  can  get  the 
means,  we  shall  come  together  to  the  United  States,  in 
the  summer ;  —  earlier  we  could  not,  on  account  of  the 
child. 

He  is  not  in  any  respect  such  a  person  as  people  in 
general  would  expect  to  find  with  me.  He  had  no  in- 
structor except  an  old  priest,  who  entirely  neglected  his 
education ;  and  of  all  that  is  contained  in  books  he  is 
absolutely  ignorant,  and  he  has  no  enthusiasm  of  char- 
acter. On  the  other  hand,  he  has  excellent  practical 
sense;  has  been  a  judicious  observer  of  all  that  passed 
before  his  eyes;  has  a  nice  sense  of  duty,  which,  in  its 
unfailing,  minute  activity,  may  put  most  enthusiasts  to 
shame;  a  very  sweet  temper,  and  great  native  refine- 
ment. His  love  for  me  has  been  unswerving  and  most 
tender.  I  have  never  suffered  a  pain  that  he  could 
relieve.  His  devotion,  when  I  am  ill,  is  to  be  compared 
only  with  yours.  His  delicacy  in  trifles,  his  sweet 

domestic  graces,  remind  me  of  E .     In  him  I  have 

found  a  home,  and  one  that  interferes  with  no  tie.    Amid 


THE    WIFE   AND   MOTHER.  275 

many  ills  and  cares,  we  have  had  much  joy  together,  in 
the  sympathy  with  natural  beaut}'',  —  with  our  child,  — 
with  all  that  is  innocent  and  sweet. 

I  do  not  know  whether  he  will  always  love  me  so 
well,  for  I  am  the  elder,  and  the  difference  will  become, 
in  a  few  years,  more  perceptible  than  now.  But  life  is 
so  uncertain,  and  it  is  so  necessary  to  take  good  things 
with  their  limitations,  that  I  have  not  thought  it  worth 
while  to  calculate  too  curiously. 

However  my  other  friends  may  feel,  I  am  sure  that 
you  will  love  him  very  much,  and  that  he  will  love  you 
no  less.  Could  we  all  live  together,  on  a  moderate  in- 
come, you  would  find  peace  with  us.  Heaven  grant, 
that,  on  returning,  I  may  gain  means  to  effect  this 
object.  He,  of  course,  can  do  nothing,  while  we  are  in 
the  United  States,  but  perhaps  I  can ;  and  now  that  my 
health  is  better,  I  shall  be  able  to  exert  myself,  if  sure 
that  my  child  is  watched  by  those  who  love  him,  and 
who  are  good  and  pure. 

What  shall  I  say  of  my  child  ?  All  might  seem  hyper- 
bole, even  to  my  dearest  mother.  In  him  I  find  satisfac- 
tion, for  the  first  time,  to  the  deep  wants  of  my  heart. 
Yet,  thinking  of  those  other  sweet  ones  fled,  I  must  look 
upon  him  as  a  treasure  only  lent.  He  is  a  fair  child, 
with  blue  eyes  and  light  hair;  very  affectionate,  graceful, 
and  sportive.  He  was  baptized,  in  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church,  by  the  name  of  Angelo  Eugene  Philip,  for  his 
father,  grandfather,  and  my  brother.  He  inherits  the 
title  of  marquis. 

Write  the  name  of  my  child  in  your  Bible,  ANGELO 
OSSOLI,  born  September  5,  1848.  God  grant  he  may  live 
to  see  you,  and  may  prove  worthy  of  your  love ! 


276  EUROPE. 

More  I  do  not  feel  strength  to  say.  You  can  hardly 
guess  how  all  attempt  to  express  something  about  the 
great  struggles  and  experiences  of  my  European  life  en- 
feebles me.  When  I  get  home,  —  if  ever  I  do,  —  it  will 
be  told  without  this  fatigue  and  excitement.  I  trust 
there  will  be  a  little  repose,  before  entering  anew  on  this 
wearisome  conflict. 

I  had  addressed  you  twice,  —  once  under  the  impres- 
sion that  I  should  not  survive  the  birth  of  my  child; 
again  during  the  siege  of  Rome,  the  father  and  I  being 
both  in  danger.  1  took  Mrs.  Story,  and,  when  she  left 
Rome,  Mr.  Cass,  into  my  confidence.  Both  were  kind 
as  sister  and  brother.  Amid  much  pain  and  struggle, 
sweet  is  the  memory  of  the  generous  love  I  received 
from  William  and  Emelyn  Story,  and  their  uncle.  They 
helped  me  gently  through  a  most  difficult  period.  Mr. 
Cass,  also,  who  did  not  know  me  at  all,  has  done  every- 
thing possible  for  me. 

A  letter  to  her  sister  fills  out  these  portraits  of  her 
husband  and  child. 

About  Ossoli  *  I  do  not  like  to  say  much,  as  he  is  an 
exceedingly  delicate  person.  He  is  not  precisely  re- 
served, but  it  is  not  natural  to  him  to  talk  about  the 
objects  of  strong  affection.  I  am  sure  he  would  not  try 
to  describe  me  to  his  sister,  but  would  rather  she  would 
take  her  own  impression  of  me ;  and,  as  much  as  possi- 
ble, I  wish  to  do  the  same  by  him.  I  presume  that,  to 
many  of  my  friends,  he  will  be  nothing,  and  they  will 
not  understand  that  I  should  have  life  in  common  with 

*  Giovanni  Angelo  Ossoli. 


THE    WIFE    AND    MOTHER.  277 

him.  But  I  do  not  think  he  will  care;  —  he  has  not  the 
slightest  tinge  of  self-love.  He  has,  throughout  our 
intercourse,  been  used  to  my  having  many  such  ties. 
He  has  no  wish  to  be  anything  to  persons  with  whom 
he  does  not  feel  spontaneously  bound,  and  when  I  am 
occupied,  is  happy  in  himself.  But  some  of  my  friends 
and  my  family,  who  will  see  him  in  the  details  of  practi- 
cal life,  cannot  fail  to  prize  the  purity  and  simple  strength 
of  his  character ;  and,  should  he  continue  to  love  me  as 
he  has  done,  his  companionship  will  be  an  inestimable 
blessing  to  me.  I  say  if,  because  all  human  affections 
are  frail,  and  I  have  experienced  too  great  revulsions 
in  my  own,  not  to  know  it.  Yet  I  feel  great  confidence 
in  the  permanence  of  his  love.  It  has  been  unblemished 
so  far,  under  many  trials ;  especially  as  I  have  been  more 
desponding  and  unreasonable,  in  many  ways,  than  I  ever 
was  before,  and  more  so,  I  hope,  than  I  ever  shall  be 
again.  But  at  all  such  times,  he  never  had  a  thought 
except  to  sustain  and  cheer  me.  He  is  capable  of  the 
sacred  love,  —  the  love  passing  that  of  woman.  He 
showed  it  to  his  father,  to  Rome,  to  me.  Now  he  loves 
his  child  in  the  same  way.  I  think  he  will  be  an  excel- 
lent father,  though  he  could  not  speculate  about  it,  nor, 
indeed,  about  anything. 

Our  meeting  was  singular,  —  fateful,  I  may  say. 
Very  soon  he  offered  me  his  hand  through  life,  but  I 
never  dreamed  I  should  take  it.  I  loved  him,  and  felt 
very  unhappy  to  leave  him ;  but  the  connection  seemed 
so  every  way  unfit,  I  did  not  hesitate  a  moment.  He, 
however,  thought  I  should  return  to  him,  as  I  did.  I 
acted  upon  a  strong  impulse,  and  could  not  analyze  at 
all  what  passed  in  my  mind.  I  neither  rejoice  nor 
grieve;  —  for  bad  or  for  good,  I  acted  out  my  character 

VOL.  ii.  24 


278  EUROPE. 

Had  I  never  connected  myself  with  any  one,  my  path 
was  clear ;  now  it  is  all  hid ;  but,  in  that  case,  my  devel- 
opment must  have  been  partial.  As  to  marriage,  I  think 
the  intercourse  of  heart  and  mind  may  be  fully  enjoyed 
without  entering  into  this  partnership  of  daily  life.  Still, 
I  do  not  find  it  burdensome.  The  friction  that  I  have 
seen  mar  so  much  the  domestic  happiness  of  others  does 
not  occur  with  us,  or,  at  least,  has  not  occurred.  Then, 
there  is  the  pleasure  of  always  being  at  hand  to  help  one 
another. 

Still,  the  great  novelty,  the  immense  gain,  to  me,  is 
my  relation  with  my  child.  1  thought  the  mother's 
heart  lived  in  me  before,  but  it  did  not ;  —  I  knew  noth- 
ing about  it.  Yet,  before  his  birth,  I  dreaded  it.  I 
thought  I  should  not  survive ;  but  if  I  did,  and  my  child 
did,  was  I  not  cruel  to  bring  another  into  this  terrible 
world?  I  could  not,  at  that  time,  get  any  other  view. 
When  he  was  born,  that  deep  melancholy  changed  at 
once  into  rapture;  but  it  did  not  last  long.  Then  came 
the  prudential  motherhood.  I  grew  a  coward,  a  care- 
taker, not  only  for  the  morrow,  but,  impiously  faithless, 
for  twenty  or  thirty  years  ahead.  It  seemed  very 
wicked  to  have  brought  the  little  tender  thing  into  the 
midst  of  cares  and  perplexities  we  had  not  feared  in  the 
least  for  ourselves.  I  imagined  everything ;  —  he  was 
to  be  in  danger  of  every  enormity  the  Croats  were  then 
committing  upon  the  infants  of  Lombardy ;  —  the  house 
would  be  burned  over  his  head ;  but,  if  he  escaped,  how 
were  we  to  get  money  to  buy  his  bibs  and  primers? 
Then  his  father  was  to  be  killed  in  the  fighting,  and  I  to 
die  of  my  cough,  &c.  &c. 

During  the  siege  of  Rome,  I  could  not  see  my  little 
boy.  What  I  endured  at  that  time,  in  various  ways, 


THE    WIFE   AND   MOTHER.  279 

not  many  would  survive.  In  the  burning  sun,  I  went, 
every  day,  to  wait,  in  the  crowd,  for  letters  about  him. 
Often  they  did  not  come.  I  saw  blood  that  had  streamed 
on  the  wall  where  Ossoli  was.  I  have  a  piece  of  a  bomb 
that  burst  close  to  him.  I  sought  solace  in  tending  the 
suffering  men;  but  when  I  beheld  the  beautiful  fair 
young  men  bleeding  to  death,  or  mutilated  for  life,  I  felt 
the  woe  of  all  the  mothers  who  had  nursed  each  to  that 
full  flower,  to  see  them  thus  cut  down.  I  felt  the  conso- 
lation, too,  —  for  those  youths  died  worthily.  I  was  a 
Mater  Dolorosa,  and  I  remembered  that  she  who  helped 
Angelino  into  the  world  came  from  the  sign  of  the  Mater 
Dolorosa.  I  thought,  even  if  he  lives,  if  he  comes 
into  the  world  at  this  great  troubled  time,  terrible  with 
perplexed  duties,  it  may  be  to  die  thus  at  twenty  years, 
one  of  a  glorious  hecatomb,  indeed,  but  still  a  sacrifice ! 
It  seemed  then  I  was  willing  he  should  die. 

Angelino's  birth-place  is  thus  sketched: 

My  baby  saw  mountains  when  he  first  looked  forward 
into  the  world.  RIETI,  —  not  only  an  old  classic  town  of 
Italy,  but  one  founded  by  what  are  now  called  the  Abo- 
rigines,—  is  a  hive  of  very  ancient  dwellings  with  red 
brown  roofs,  a  citadel  and  several  towers.  It  is  in  a 
plain,  twelve  miles  in  diameter  one  way,  not  much  less 
the  other,  and  entirely  encircled  with  mountains  of  the 
noblest  form.  Casinos  and  hermitages  gleam  here  and 
there  on  their  lower  slopes.  This  plain  is  almost  the 
richest  in  Italy,  and  full  of  vineyards.  Rieti  is  near  the 
foot  of  the  hills  on  one  side,  and  the  rapid  Velino  makes 
almost  the  circuit  of  its  walls,  on  its  way  to  Terni.  I 
had  my  apartment  shut  out  from  the  family,  on  the  bank 
of  this  river,  and  saw  the  mountains,  as  I  lay  on  my 


280  EUROPE. 

restless  couch.  There  was  a  piazza,  too,  or,  as  they  call 
it  here,  a  loggia,  which  hung  over  the  river,  where  I 
walked  most  of  the  night,  for  I  could  not  sleep  at  all  in 
those  months.  In  the  wild  autumn  storms,  the  stream 
became  a  roaring  torrent,  constantly  lit  up  by  lightning 
flashes,  and  the  sound  of  its  rush  was  very  sublime.  I 
see  it  yet,  as  it  swept  away  on  its  dark  green  current 
the  heaps  of  burning  straw  which  the  children  let  down 
from  the  bridge.  Opposite  my  window  was  a  vineyard, 
whose  white  and  purple  clusters  were  my  food  for  three 
months.  It  was  pretty  to  watch  the  vintage,  —  the 
asses  and  wagons  loaded  with  this  wealth  of  amber  and 
rubies,  —  the  naked  boys,  singing  in  the  trees  on  which 
the  vines  are  trained,  as  they  cut  the  grapes,  —  the  nut- 
brown  maids  and  matrons,  in  their  red  corsets  and  white 
head-clothes,  receiving  them  below,  while  the  babies  and 
little  children  were  frolicking  in  the  grass. 

In  Rieti,  the  ancient  Umbrians  were  married  thus.  In 
presence  of  friends,  the  man  and  maid  received  together 
the.  gifts  of  fire  and  water;  the  bridegroom  then  con- 
ducted to  his  house  the  bride.  At  the  door,  he  gave  her 
the  keys,  and,  entering,  threw  behind  him  nuts,  as  a 
sign  that  he  renounced  all  the  frivolities  of  boyhood. 

I  intend  to  write  all  that  relates  to  the  birth  of  Ange- 
lino,  in  a  little  book,  which  I  shall,  I  hope,  show  you 
sometime.  I  have  begun  it,  and  then  stopped ;  —  it 
seemed  to  me  he  would  die.  If  he  lives,  I  shall  finish  it, 
before  the  details  are  at  all  faded  in  my  mind.  Rieti  is 
a  place  where  I  should  have  liked  to  have  him  born, 
and  where  I  should  like  to  have  him  now,  —  but  that 
the  people  are  so  wicked.  They  are  the  most  ferocious 
and  mercenary  population  of  Italy.  I  did  not  know  this, 
when  I  went  there,  and  merely  expected  to  be  solitary 


PRIVATE    MARRIAGE.  281 

and  quiet  among  poor  people.  But  they  looked  on  the 
"Marchioness"  as  an  ignorant  Inglese,  and  they  fancy 
all  Inglesi  have  wealth  untold.  Me  they  were  bent  on 
plundering  in  every  way.  They  made  me  suffer  terribly 
in  the  first  days. 

THE    PRIVATE    MARRIAGE. 

The  high-minded  friend,  spoken  of  with  such  grateful 
affection  by  Margaret,  in  her  letter  to  her  mother,  thus 
gracefully  narrates  the  romance  of  her  marriage ;  and 
the  narrative  is  a  noble  proof  of  the  heroic  disinterested- 
ness with  which,  amidst  her  own  engrossing  trials,  Mar- 
garet devoted  herself  to  others.  Mrs.  Story  writes  as 
follows :  — 

"  During  the  month  of  November,  1847,  we  arrived 
in  Rome,  purposing  to  spend  the  winter  there.  *  At  that 
time,  Margaret  was  living  in  the  house  of  the  Marchesa 

,  in  the  Corso,  Ultimo  Piano.  Her  rooms  were 

pleasant  and  cheerful,  with  a  certain  air  of  elegance,  and 
refinement,  but  they  had  not  a  sunny  exposure,  that  all- 
essential  requisite  for  health,  during  the  damp  Roman 
winter.  Margaret  suffered  from  ill  health  this  winter, 
and  she  afterwards  attributed  it  mainly  to  the  fact,  that 
she  had  not  the  sun.  As  soon  as  she  heard  of  our  arrival, 
she  stretched  forth  a  friendly,  cordial  hand,  and  greeted 
us  most  warmly.  She  gave  us  great  assistance  in  our 
search  for  convenient  lodgings,  and  we  were  soon  hap- 
pily established  near  her.  Our  intercourse  was  hence- 
forth most  frequent  and  intimate,  and  knew  no  cloud 
nor  coldness.  Daily  we  were  much  with  her,  and  daily 
we  felt  more  sensible  of  the  worth  and  value  of  our 
friend.  To  me  she  seemed  so  unlike  what  I  had  thought 

VOL.  n.  24*  ' 


282  EUROPE. 

her  to  be  in  America,  that  I  continually  said,  '  How 
have  I  misjudged  you,  —  you  are  not  at  all  such  a  per- 
son as  I  took  you  to  be.'  To  this  she  replied,  '  I  am 
not  the  same  person,  but  in  many  respects  another ;  — 
my  life  has  new  channels  now,  and  how  thankful  I  am 
that  I  have  been  able  to  come  out  into  larger  interests, — 
but,  partly,  you  did  not  know  me  at  home  in  the  true 
light.'  It  was  true,  that  I  had  not  known  her  much 
personally,  when  in  Boston;  but  through  her  friends, 
who  were  mine  also,  1  had  learned  to  think  of  her  as  a 
person  on  intellectual  stilts,  with  a  large  share  of  arro- 
gance, and  little  sweetness  of  temper.  How  unlike  to 
this  was  she  now  !  —  so  delicate,  so  simple,  confiding, 
and  affectionate ;  with  a  true  womanly  heart  and  soul, 
sensitive  arid  generous,  and,  what  was  to  me  a  still 
greater  surprise,  possessed  of  so  broad  a  charity,  that 
she  could*  cover  with  its  mantle  the  faults  and  defects  of 
all  about  her. 

"  We  soon  became  acquainted  with  the  young  Marquis 
Ossoli,  and  met  him  frequently  at  Margaret's  rooms.  He 
appeared  to  be  of  a  reserved  and  gentle  nature,  with 
quiet,  gentleman-like  manners,  and  there  was  something 
melancholy  in  the  expression  of  his  face,  which  made 
one  desire  to  know  more  of  him.  In  figure,  he  was  tall, 
and  of  slender  frame,  with  dark  hair  and  eyes ;  we 
judged  that  he  was  about  thirty  years  of  age,  possibly 
younger.  Margaret  spoke  of  him  most  frankly,  and 
soon  told  us  the  history  of  her  first  acquaintance  with 
him,  which,  as  nearly  as  I  can  recall,  was  as  follows :  — 

"She  went  to  hear  vespers,  the  evening  of  'Holy 
Thursday,'  soon  after  her  first  coming  to  Rome,  in  the 
spring  of  1847,  at  St.  Peter's.  She  proposed  to  her  com- 
panions that  some  place  in  the  church  should  be  desig- 


PRIVATE    MARRIAGfc',  283 

nated.  where,  after  the  services,  they  should  meet,  —  she 
being  inclined,  as  was  her  custom  always  in  St.  Peter's, 
to  wander  alone  among  the  different  chapels.  When,  at 
length,  she  saw  that  the  crowd  was  dispersing,  she 
returned  to  the  place  assigned,  but  could  not  find  her 
party.  In  some  perplexity,  she  walked  about,  with  her 
glass  carefully  examining  each  group.  Presently,  a 
young  man  of  gentlemanly  address  came  up  to  her,  and 
begged,  if  she  were  seeking  any  one,  that  he  might  be 
permitted  to  assist  her  ;  and  together  they  continued  the 
search  through  all  parts  of  the  church.  At  last,  it 
became  evident,  beyond  a  doubt,  that  her  party  could  no 
longer  be  there,  and,  as  it  was  then  quite  late,  the  crowd 
all  gone,  they  went  out  into  the  piazza  to  find  a  carriage, 
in  which  she  might  go  home.  In  the  piazza,  in  front  of 
St.  Peter's,  generally  may  be  found  many  carriages ;  but, 
owing  to  the  delay  they  had  made,  there  were  then 
none,  and  Margaret  was  compelled  to  walk,  with  her 
stranger  friend,  the  long  distance  between  the  Vatican 
and  the  Corso.  At  this  time,  she  had  little  command  of 
the  language  for  conversational  purposes,  and  their  words 
were  few,  though  enough  to  create  in  each  a  desire  for 
further  knowledge  and  acquaintance.  At  her  door,  they 
parted,  and  Margaret,  finding  her  friends  already  at 
home,  related  the  adventure." 

This  chance  meeting  at  vesper  service  in  St.  Peter's 
prepared  the  way  for  many  interviews;  and  it  was 
before  Margaret's  departure  for  Venice,  Milan,  and 
Como,  that  Ossoli  first  offered  her  his  hand,  and  was 
refused.  Mrs.  Story  continues :  — 

"  After  her  return  to  Rome,  they  met  again,  and  he 
became  her  constant  visitor;  and  as,  in  those  days, 
Margaret  watched  with  intense  interest  the  tide  of 


political  events,  his  mind  was  also  turned  in  the  direc- 
tion of  liberty  and  better  government.  Whether  Ossoli, 
unassisted,  would  have  been  able  to  emancipate  him- 
self from  the  influence  of  his  family  and  early  educa- 
tion, both  eminently  conservative  and  narrow,  may  be 
a  question ;  but  that  he  did  throw  off  the  shackles, 
and  espouse  the  cause  of  Roman  liberty  with  warm 
zeal,  is  most  certain.  Margaret  had  known  Mazzini  in 
London,  had  partaken  of  his  schemes  for  the  future  of 
his  country,  and  was  taking  every  pains  to  inform  her- 
self in  regard  to  the  action  of  all  parties,  with  a  view  to 
write  a  history  of  the  period.  Ossoli  brought  her  every 
intelligence  that  might  be  of  interest  to  her,  and  busied 
himself  in  learning  the  views  of  both  parties,  that  she 
might  be  able  to  judge  the  matter  impartially. 

"Here  I  may  say,  that,  in  the  estimation  of  most  of 
those  who  were  in  Italy  at  this  time,  the  loss  of  Marga- 
ret's history  and  notes  is  a  great  and  irreparable  one. 
No  one  could  have  possessed  so  many  avenues  of  direct 
information  from  both  sides.  While  she  was  the  friend 
and  correspondent  of  Mazzini,  and  knew  the  springs  of 
action  of  his  party ;  through  her  husband  s  family  and 
connections,  she  knew  the  other  view ;  so  that,  whatever 
might  be  the  value  of  her  deductions,  her  facts  could 
not  have  been  other  than  of  highest  worth.  Together, 
Margaret  and  Ossoli  went  to  the  meetings  of  either  side ; 
and  to  her  he  carried  all  the  flying  reports  of  the  day, 
such  as  he  had  heard  in  the  cafe,  or  through  his  friends. 

"  In  a  short  time,  we  went  to  Naples,  and  Margaret,  in 
the  course  of  a  few  months,  to  Aquila  and  Rieti.  Mean- 
while, we  heard  from  her  often  by  letter,  and  wrote  to 
urge  her  to  join  us  in  our  villa  at  Sorrento.  During 
this  summer,  she  wrote  constantly  upon  her  history  of 


PRIVATE    MARRIAGE.  285 

the  Italian  movement,  for  which  she  had  collected  ma- 
terials through  the  past  winter.  We  did  not  again  meet, 
until  the  following  spring,  March,  1849,  when  we  went 
from  Florence  back  to  Rome.  Once  more  we  were  with 
her,  then,  in  most  familiar  every-day  intercourse,  and  as 
at  this  time  a  change  of  government  had  taken  place,  — 
the  Pope  having  gone  to  Molo  di  Gaeta,  —  we  watched 
with  her  the  great  movements  of  the  day.  Ossoli  was  now 
actively  interested  on  the  liberal  side ;  he  was  holding 
the  office  of  captain  in  the  Guardia  Civica,  and  enthu- 
siastically looking  forward  to  the  success  of  the  new 
measures. 

"  During  the  spring  of  1849,  Mazzini  came  to  Rome. 
He  went  at  once  to  see  Margaret,  and  at  her  rooms  met 
Ossoli.  After  this  interview  with  Mazzini,  it  was  quite 
evident  that  they  had  lost  something  of  the  faith  and 
hopeful  certainty  Avith  which  they  had  regarded  the  issue, 
for  Mazzini  had  discovered  the  want  of  singleness  of  pur- 
pose in  the  leaders  of  the  Provisional  Government.  Still 
zealously  Margaret  and  Ossoli  aided  in  everything  the  pro- 
gress of  events ;  and  when  it  was  certain  that  the  French 
had  landed  forces  at  Civita  Vecchia,  and  would  attack 
Rome,  Ossoli  took  station  with  his  men  on  the  walls  of  the 
Vatican  gardens,  where  he  remained  faithfully  to  the  end 
of  the  attack.  Margaret  had,  at  the  same  time,  the  entire 
charge  of  one  of  the  hospitals,  and  was  the  assistant  of 
the  Princess  Belgioioso,  in  charge  of  '  del  Pellegrini,' 
where,  during  the  first  day,  they  received  seventy 
wounded  men,  French  and  Romans. 

"  Night  and  day,  Margaret  was  occupied,  and,  with  the 
princess,  so  ordered  and  disposed  the  hospitals,  that  their 
conduct  was  truly  admirable.  All  the  work  was  skil- 
fully divided,  so  that  there  was  no  confusion  or  hurry, 


286  EUROPE. 

and,  from  the  chaotic  condition  in  which  these  places  had 
been  left  by  the  priests,  —  who  previously  had  charge  of 
them,  —  they  brought  them  to  a  state  of  perfect  regular- 
ity and  discipline.  Of  money  they  had  very  little,  and 
they  were  obliged  to  give  their  time  and  thoughts,  in  its 
place.  From  the  Americans  in  Rome,  they  raised 
a  subscription  for  the  aid  of  the  wounded  of  either 
party;  but,  besides  this,  they  had  scarcely  any  means 
to  use.  I  have  walked  through  the  wards  with  Mar- 
garet, and  seen  how  comforting  was  her  presence  to 
the  poor  suffering  men.  '  How  long  will  the  Signora 
stay?'  'When  will  the  Signora  come  again?'  they 
eagerly  asked.  For  each  one's  peculiar  tastes  she  had  a 
care :  to  one  she  carried  books ;  to  another  she  told  the 
news  of  the  day :  and  listened  to  another's  oft-repeated 
tale  of  wrongs,  as  the  best  sympathy  she  could  give. 
They  raised  themselves  up  on  their  elbows,  to  get  the 
last  glimpse  of  her  as  she  was  going  away.  There  were 
some  of  the  sturdy  fellows  of  Garibaldi's  Legion  there, 
and  to  them  she  listened,  as  they  spoke  with  delight  of 
their  chief,  of  his  courage  and  skill ;  for  he  seemed  to 
have  won  the  hearts  of  his  men  in  a  remarkable  manner. 
"  One  incident  I  may  as  well  narrate  in  this  connection. 
It  happened,  that,  some  time  before  the  coming  of  the 
French,  while  Margaret  was  travelling  quite  by  herself, 
on  her  return  from  a  visit  to  her  'child,  who  was  out  at 
nurse  in  the  country,  she  rested  for  an  hour  or  two  at 
a  little  wayside  osteria.  While  there,  she  was  startled 
by  the  padrone,  who,  with  great  alarm,  rushed  into  the 
room,  and  said,  { We  are  quite  lost !  here  is  the  Legion 
Garibaldi!  These  men  always  pillage,  and,  if  we  do 
not  give  all  up  to  them  without  pay,  they  will  kill  us.' 
Margaret  looked  out  upon  the  road,  and  saw  that  it  was 


PRIVATE   MARRIAGE.  287 

quite  true,  that  the  legion  was  coming  thither  with  all 
speed.  For  a  moment,  she  said,  she  felt  uncomfortably ; 
for  such  was  the  exaggerated  account  of  the  conduct  of 
the  men,  that  she  thought  it  quite  possible  that  they 
would  take  her  horses,  and  so  leave  her  without  the 
means  of  proceeding  on  her  journey.  On  they  came, 
and  she  determined  to  offer  them  a  lunch  at  her  own 
expense;  having  faith  that  gentleness  and  courtesy  was 
the  best  protection  from  injury.  Accordingly,  as  soon  as 
they  arrived,  and  rushed  boisterously  into  the  osteria, 
she  rose,  and  said  to  the  padrone,  '  Give  these  good 
men  wine  and  bread  on  my  account ;  for,  after  their  ride, 
they  must  need  refreshment.'  Immediately,  the  noise 
and  confusion  subsided;  with  respectful  bows  to  her, 
they  seated  themselves  and  partook  of  the  lunch,  giving 
her  an  account  of  their  journey.  When  she  was  ready  to 
go,  and  her  vettura  was  at  the  door,  they  waited  upon 
her,  took  down  the  steps,  and  assisted  her  with  much 
gentleness  and  respectfulness  of  manner,  and  she  drove 
off,  wondering  how  men  with  such  natures  could  have 
the  reputation  they  had.  And,  so  far  as  we  could  gather, 
except  in  this  instance,  their  conduct  was  of  a  most 
disorderly  kind. 

"  Again,  on  another  occasion,  she  showed  how  great 
was  her  power  over  rude  men.  This  was  when  two 
contadini  at  Rieti,  being  in  a  violent  quarrel,  had  rushed 
upon  each  other  with  knives.  Margaret  was  called  by 
the  women  bystanders,  as  the  Signora  who  could  most 
influence  them  to  peace.  She  went  directly  up  to  the 
men,  whose  rage  was  truly  awful  to  behold,  and,  stepping 
between  them,  commanded  them  to  separate.  They 
parted,  but  with  such  a  look  of  deadly  revenge,  that 
Margaret  felt  her  work  was  but  half  accomplished.  She 


288  EUROPE. 

therefore  sought  them  out  separately,  and  talked  with 
each,  urging  forgiveness;  it  was  long,  however,  before 
she  could  see  any  change  of  purpose,  and  only  by  re- 
peated conversations  was  it,  that  she  brought  about  her 
desire,  and  saw  them  meet  as  friends.  After  this,  her 
reputation  as  peace-maker  was  great,  and  the  women  in 
the  neighborhood  came  to  her  with  long  tales  of  trouble, 
urging  her  intervention.  I  have  never  known  anything 
mo"re  extraordinary  than  this  influence  of  hers  over  the 
passion  and  violence  of  the  Italian  character.  Repeated 
instances  come  to  my  mind,  when  a  look  from  her  has 
had  more  power  to  quiet  excitement,  than  any  arguments 
and  reasonings  that  could  be  brought  to  bear  upon  the 
subject.  Something  quite  superior  and  apart  from  them, 
the  people  thought  her,  and  yet  knew  her  as  the  gentle 
and  considerate  judge  of  their  vices. 

"I  may  also  mention  here,  that  Margaret's  charities, 
according  to  her  means,  were  larger  than  those  of  any 
other  whom  I  ever  knew.  At  one  time,  in  Rome,  while 
she  lived  upon  the  simplest,  slenderest  fare,  spending  only 
some  ten  or  twelve  cents  a  day  for  her  dinner,  she  lent, 
unsolicited,  her  last  fifty  dollars  to  an  artist,  who  was  then 
in  need.  That  it  would  ever  be  returned  to  her,  she  did 
not  know;  but  the  doubt  did  not  restrain  the  hand  from 
giving.  In  this  instance,  it  was  soon  repaid  her;  but  her 
charities  were  not  always  towards  the  most  deserving. 
Repeated  instances  of  the  false  pretences,  under  which 
demands  for  charity  are  made,  were  known  to  her  after 
she  had  given  to  unworthy  objects ;  but  no  experience  of 
this  sort  ever  checked  her  kindly  impulse  to  give,  and 
being  once  deceived  taught  her  no  lesson  of  distrust. 
She  ever  listened  with  ready  ear  to  all  who  came  to  her 
in  any  form  of  distress.  Indeed,  to  use  the  language  of 


PRIVATE    MARRIAGE.  289 

another  friend,  'the  prevalent  impression  at  Rome, 
among  all  who  knew  her,  was,  that  she  was  a  mild  saint 
and  a  ministering  angel.' 

"  I  have,  in  order  to  bring  in  these  instances  of  her  in- 
fluence on  those  about  her,  deviated  from  my  track.  We 
return  to  the  life  she  led  in  Rome  during  the  attack  of 
the  French,  and  her  charge  of  the  hospitals,  where  she 
spent  daily  some  seven  or  eight  hours,  and,  often,  the 
entire  night.  Her  feeble  frame  was  a  good  deal  shaken 
by  so  uncommon  a  demand  upon  her  strength,  while,  at 
the  same  time,  the  anxiety  of  her  mind  was  intense.  I 
well  remember  how  exhausted  and  weary  she  was ;  how 
pale  and  agitated  she  returned  to  us  after  her  day's  and 
night's  watching;  how  eagerly  she  asked  for  news  of 
Ossoli,  and  how  seldom  we  had  any  to  give  her,  for  he 
was  unable  to  send  her  a  word  for  two  or  three  days  at 
a  time.  Letters  from  the  country  there  were  few  or 
none,  as  the  communication  between  Rieti  and  Rome 
was  cut  off. 

"  After  one  such  day,  she  called  me  to  her  bedside,  and 
said  that  I  must  consent,  for  her  sake,  to  keep  the  SECRET 
she  was  about  to  confide.  Then  she  told  me  of  her 
"narriage;  where  her  child  was,  and  where  he  was 
born ;  and  gave  me  certain  papers  and  parchment  docu- 
ments which  I  was  to  keep;  and,  in  the  event  of  her 
and  her  husband's  death,  I  was  to  take  the  boy  to  her 
mother  in  America,  and  confide  him  to  her  care,  and  that 
of  her  friend,  Mrs. . 

"  The  papers  thus  given  me,  I  had  perfect  liberty  to 
read ;  but  after  she  had  told  me  her  story,  I  desired  no 
confirmation  of  this  fact,  beyond  what  her  words  had 
given.  One  or  two  of  the  papers  she  opened,  and  we 
together  read  them.  One  was  written  on  parchment,  in 

VOL.  ii.  25 


290  EUROPE. 

Latin,  and  was  a  certificate,  given  by  the  piiest  who 
married  them,  saying  that  Angelo  Eugene  Ossoli  was 
the  legal  heir  of  whatever  title  and  fortune  should  come 
to  his  father.  To  this  was  affixed  his  seal,  with  those 
of  the  other  witnesses,  and  the  Ossoli  crest  was  drawn 
in  full  upon  the  paper.  There  was  also  a  book,  in  which 
Margaret  had  written  the  history  of  her  acquaintance 
and  marriage  with  Ossoli,  and  of  the  birth  of  her  child. 
In  giving  that  to  me,  she  said,  '  If  I  do  not  survive  to 
tell  this  myself  to  my  family,  this  book  will  be  to  them 
invaluable.  Therefore  keep  it  for  them.  If  I  live,  it 
will  be  of  no  use,  for  my  word  will  be  all  that  they  will 
ask.'  I  took  the  papers,  and  locked  them  up.  Never 
feeling  any  desire  to  look  into  them,  I  never  did;  and  as 
she  gave  them  to  me,  I  returned  them  to  her,  when  I  left 
Rome  for  Switzerland. 

"  After  this,  she  often  spoke  to  me  of  the  necessity  there 
had  been,  and  still  existed,  for  her  keeping  her  marriage  a 
secret.  At  the  time,  I  argued  in  favor  of  her  making  it 
public,  but  subsequent  events  have  shown  me  the  wisdom 
of  her  decision.  The  explanation  she  gave  me  of  the 
secret  marriage  was  this : 

"They  were  married  in  December,  soon  after,  —  as  I 
think,  though  I  am  not  positive,  —  the  death  of  the  old 
Marquis  Ossoli.  The  estate  he  had  left  was  undivided, 
and  the  two  brothers,  attached  to  the  Papal  household, 
were  to  be  the  executors.  This  patrimony  was  not  large, 
but,  when  fairly  divided,  would  bring  to  each  a  little 
property,  —  an  income  sufficient,  with  economy,  for  life 
in  Rome.  Everyone  knows,  that  law  is  subject  to  eccle- 
siastical influence  in  Rome,  and  that  marriage  with  a 
Protestant  would  be  destructive  to  all  prospects  of  favor- 
able administration.  And  beside  being  of  another  religious 


PllIVATE    MARRIAGE.  291 

faith,  there  was,  in  this  case,  the  additional  crime  of  hav- 
ing married  a  liberal,  —  one  who  had  publicly  interested 
herself  in  radical  views.  Taking  the  two  facts  together, 
there  was  good  reason  to  suppose,  that,  if  the  marriage 
were  known,  Ossoli  must  be  a  beggar,  and  a  banished 
man,  under  the  then  existing  government;  while,  by 
waiting  a  little,  there  was  a  chance,  —  a  fair  one,  too, — 
of  an  honorable  post  under  the  new  government,  whose 
formation  every  one  was  anticipating.  Leaving  Rome, 
too,  at  that  time,  was  deserting  the  field  wherein  they 
might  hope  to  work  much  good,  and  where  they  felt  that 
they  were  needed.  Ossoli's  brothers  had  long  before 
begun  to  look  jealously  upon  him.  Knowing  his  ac- 
quaintance with  Margaret,  they  feared  the  influence  she 
might  exert  over  his  mind  in  favor  of  liberal  sentiments, 
and  had  not  hesitated  to  threaten  him  with  the  Papal 
displeasure.  Ossoli's  education  had  been  such,  that  it 
certainly  argues  an  uncommon  elevation  of  character, 
that  he  remained  so  firm  and  single  in  his  political  views, 
and  was  so  indifferent  to  the  pecuniary  advantages  which 
his  former  position  offered,  since,  during  many  years,  the 
Ossoli  family  had  been  high  in  favor  and  in  office,  in 
Rome,  and  the  same  vista  opened  for  his  own  future,  had 
he  chosen  to  follow  their  lead.  The  Pope  left  for  Molo 
di  Gaeta,  and  then  came  a  suspension  of  all  legal  pro- 
cedure, so  that  the  estate  was  never  divided,  before  we 
left  Italy,  and  I  do  riot  know  that  it  has  ever  been. 

"Ossoli  had  the  feeling,  that,  while  his  own  sister  and 
family  could  not  be  informed  of  his  marriage,  no  others 
should  know  of  it ;  and  from  day  to  day  they  hoped  on 
for  the  favorable  change  which  should  enable  them  to 
declare  it.  Their  child  was  born ;  and,  for  his  sake,  in 
order  to  defend  him,  as  Margaret  said,  from  the  stings  of 


292  EUROPE. 

poverty,  they  were  patient  waiters  for  the  restored  law 
of  the  land.  Margaret  felt  that  she  would,  at  any  cost 
to  herself,  gladly  secure  for  her  child  a  condition 
above  want ;  and,  although  it  was  a  severe  trial,  —  as 
her  letters  to  us  attest,  —  she  resolved  to  wait,  and 
hope,  and  keep  her  secret.  At  the  time  when  she  took 
me  into  her  confidence,  she  was  so  full  of  anxiety  and 
dread  of  some  shock,  from  which  she  might  not  recover, 
that  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  make  it  known  to 
some  friend.  She  was  living  with  us  at  the  time,  and 
she  gave  it  to  me.  Most  sacredly,  but  timidly,  did  I 
keep  her  secret;  for,  all  the  while,  I  was  tormented  with 
a  desire  to  be  of  active  service  to  her,  and  I  was  inca- 
pacitated from  any  action  by  the  position  in  which  I  was 
placed. 

"  Ossoli's  post  was  one  of  considerable  danger,  he  being 
in  one  of  the  most  exposed  places ;  and,  as  Margaret  saw 
his  wounded  and  dying  comrades,  she  felt  that  another 
shot  might  take  him  from  her,  or  bring  him  to  her  care 
in  the  hospital.  Eagerly  she  watched  the  carts,  as  they 
came  up  with  their  suffering  loads,  dreading  that  her 
worst  fears  might  be  confirmed.  No  argument  of  ours 
could  persuade  Ossoli  to  leave  his  post  to  take  food  or 
rest.  Sometimes  we  went  to  him,  and  carried  a  con- 
cealed basket  of  provisions,  but  he  shared  it  with  so 
many  of  his  fellows,  that  his  own  portion  must  have  been 
almost  nothing.  Haggard,  worn,  and  pale,  he  walked 
over  the  Vatican  grounds  with  us,  pointing  out,  now  here, 
now  there,  where  some  poor  fellow's  blood  sprinkled  the 
wall;  Margaret  was  with  us,  and  for  a  few  moments 
they  could  have  an  anxious  talk  about  their  child. 

"  To  get  to  the  child,  or  to  send  to  him,  was  quite  im- 
possible, and  for  days  they  were  in  complete  ignorance 
about  him.  At  length,  a  letter  came;  and  in  it  the 


AQUILA    AND    RIETI.  293 

nurse  declared  that  unless  they  should  immediately  send 
her,  in  advance-payment,  a  certain  sum  of  money,  she 
would  altogether  abandon  Angelo.  It  seemed,  at  first, 
impossible  to  forward  the  money,  the  road  was  so  inse- 
cure, and  the  bearer  of  any  parcel  was  so  likely  to  be 
seized  by  one  party  or  the  other,  and  to  be  treated  as  a 
spy.  But  finally,  after  much  consideration,  the  sum  was 
sent  to  the  address  of  a  physician,  who  had  been  charged 
with  the  care  of  the  child.  I  think  it  did  reach  its  des- 
tination, and  for  a  while  answered  the  purpose  of  keep- 
ing the  wretched  woman  faithful  to  her  charge." 

AQUILA.   AND    RIETI. 

Extracts  from  Margaret's  and  Ossoli's  letters  will 
guide  us  more  into  the  heart  of  this  home-tragedy,  so 
sanctified  with  holy  hope,  sweet  love,  and  patient 
heroism.  They  shall  be  introduced  by  a  passage  from 
a  journal  written  many  years  before. 

"  My  Child !  O,  Father,  give  me  a  bud  on  my  tree  of 
life,  so  scathed  by  the  lightning  and  bound  by  the  frost ! 
Surely  a  being  born  wholly  of  my  being,  would  not  let 
me  lie  so  still  and  cold  in  lonely  sadness.  This  is  a 
new  sorrow ;  for  always,  before,  I  have  wanted  a 
superior  or  equal,  but  now  it  seems  that  only  the  feel- 
ing of  a  parent  for  a  child  could  exhaust  the  richness 
of  one's  soul.  All  powerful  Nature,  how  dost  thou  lead 
me  into  thy  heart  and  rebuke  every  factitious  feeling, 
every  thought  of  pride,  which  has  severed  me  from  the 
Universe !  How  did  I  aspire  to  be  a  pure  flame,  ever 
pointing  upward  on  the  altar  I  But  these  thoughts  of 
consecration,  though  true  to  the  time,  are  false  to  the 

VOL.  n.  25* 


294  EUROPE. 

whole.  There  needs  no  consecration  to  the  wise  heart 
for  all  is  pervaded  by  One  Spirit,  and  the  Soul  of  all 
existence  is  the  Holy  of  Holies.  I  thought  ages  would 
pass,  before  I  had  this  parent  feeling,  and  then,  that  the 
desire  would  rise  from  my  fulness  of  being.  But  now 
it  springs  up  in  my  poverty  and  sadness.  I  am  well 
aware  that  I  ought  not  to  be  so  happy.  I  do  not  deserve 
to  be  well  beloved  in  any  way,  far  less  as  the  mother  by 
her  child.  I  am  too  rough  and  blurred  an  image  of  the 
Creator,  to  become  a  bestower  of  life.  Yet,  if  I  refuse  to 
be  anything  else  than  my  highest  self,  the  true  beauty 
will  finally  glow  out  in  fulness." 

At  what  cost,  were  bought  the  blessings  so  long  pined 
for  !  Early  in  the  summer  of  1848,  Margaret  left  Rome 
for  Aquila,  a  small,  old  town,  once  a  baronial  residence, 
perched  among  the  mountains  of  Abruzzi.  She  thus 
sketches  her  retreat :  — 

"I  am  in  the  midst  of  a  theatre  of  glorious,  snow- 
crowned  mountains,  whose  pedestals  are  garlanded  with 
the  olive  and  mulberry,  and  along  whose  sides  run 
bridle-paths,  fringed  with  almond  groves  and  vineyards. 
The  valleys  are  yellow  with  saffron  flowers;  the  grain 
fields  enamelled  with  the  brilliant  blue  corn-flower  and' 
red  poppy.  They  are  of  intoxicating  beauty,  and  like 
nothing  in  America.  The  old  genius  of  Europe  has  so 
mellowed  even  the  marbles  here,  that  one  cannot  have 
the  feeling  of  holy  virgin  loneliness,  as  in  the  New 
World.  The  spirits  of  the  dead  crowd  me  in  most  soli- 
tary places.  Here  and  there,  gleam  churches  or  shrines. 
The  little  town,  much  ruined,  lies  on  the  slope  of  a  hill, 
with  the  houses  of  the  barons  gone  to  decay,  and  unused 


AQUILA    AND    RIETI.  295 

churches,  over  whose  arched  portals  are  faded  frescoes, 
with  the  open  belfry,  and  stone  wheel-windows,  always 
so  beautiful.  Sweet  little  paths  lead  away  through  the 
fields  to  convents, —one  of  Passionists,  another  of 
Capuchins ;  and  the  draped  figures  of  the  monks,  pacing 
up  and  down  the  hills,  look  very  peaceful.  In  the 
churches  still  open,  are  pictures,  not  by  great  masters, 
but  of  quiet,  domestic  style,  which  please  me  much, 
especially  one  of  the  Virgin  offering  her  breast  to  the 
child  Jesus.  There  is  often  sweet  music  in  these 
churches ;  they  are  dressed  with  fresh  flowers,  and  the 
incense  is  not  oppressive,  so  freely  sweeps  through  them 
the  mountain  breeze." 

Here  Margaret  remained  but  a  month,  while  Ossoli 
was  kept  fast  by  his  guard  duties  in  Rome.  "  Addio, 
tutto  caro"  she  writes;  "I  shall  receive  you  with  the 
greatest  joy,  when  you  can  come.  If  it  were  only  pos- 
sible to  be  nearer  to  you !  for,  except  the  good  air  and 
the  security,  this  place  does  not  please  me."  And 
again:  —  "How  much  I  long  to  be  near  you!  You 
write  nothing  of  yourself,  and  this  makes  me  anxious 
and  sad.  Dear  and  good !  I  pray  for  thee  often,  now 
that  it  is  all  I  can  do  for  thee.  We  must  hope  that 
Destiny  will  at  last  grow  weary  of  persecuting.  Ever 
thy  affectionate."  Meantime  Ossoli  writes:  —  "Why 
do  you  not  send  me  tidings  of  yourself,  every  post-day? 
since  the  post  leaves  Aquila  three  times  a  week.  I  send 
you  journals  or  letters  every  time  the  post  leaves  Rome. 
You  should  do  the  same.  Take  courage,  and  thus  you 
will  make  me  happier  also ;  and  you  can  think  how  sad 
I  must  feel  in  not  being  near  you,  dearest,  to  care  for  all 
your  wants." 


296  EUROPE. 

By  the  middle  of  July,  Margaret  could  bear  her  lone- 
liness no  longer,  and,  passing  the  mountains,  advanced 
to  Rieti,  within  the  frontier  of  the  Papal  States.  Here 
Ossoli  could  sometimes  visit  her  on  a  Sunday,  by 
travelling  in  the  night  from  Rome.  "  Do  not  fail  to 
come,"  writes  Margaret.  "I  shall  have  your  coffee 
warm.  You  will  arrive  early,  and  I  can  see  the  dili- 
gence pass  the  bridge  from  my  window."  But  now 
threatened  a  new  trial,  terrible  under  the  circumstances, 
yet  met  with  the  loving  heroism  that  characterized  all 
her  conduct.  The  civic  guard  was  ordered  to  prepare 
for  marching  to  Bologna.  Under  date  of  August  17th, 
Ossoli  writes:  —  "MiaCara!  How  deplorable  is  my 
state !  I  have  suffered  a  most  severe  struggle.  If  your 
condition  were  other  than  it  is,  I  could  resolve  more 
easily ;  but,  in  the  present  moment,  I  cannot  leave  you  ! 
Ah,  how  cruel  is  Destiny!  I  understand  well  how 
much  you  would  sacrifice  yourself  for  me,  and  am 
deeply  grateful ;  but  I  cannot  yet  decide."  Margaret  is 
alone,  without  a  single  friend,  and  not  only  among 
strangers,  but  surrounded  by  people  so  avaricious,  cun- 
ning, and  unscrupulous,  that  she  has  to  be  constantly 
on  the  watch  to  avoid  being  fleeced ;  she  is  very  poor, 
and  has  no  confidant,  even  in  Rome,  to  consult  with; 
she  is  ill,  and  fears  death  in  the  near  crisis ;  yet  thus, 
with  true  Roman  greatness,  she  counsels  her  husband :  — 
"It  seems,  indeed,  a  marvel  how  all  things  go  contrary 
to  us !  That,  just  at  this  moment,  you  should  be  called 
upon  to  go  away.  But  do  what  is  for  your  honor.  If 
honor  requires  it,  go.  I  will  try  to  sustain  myself.  I 
leave  it  to  your  judgment  when  to  come,  —  if,  indeed, 
you  can  ever  come  again !  At  least,  we  have  had  some 
hours  of  peace  together,  if  now  it  is  all  over.  Adieu, 


RIETI.  297 

love ;  I  embrace  thee  always,  and  pray  for  thy  welfare. 
Most  affectionately,  adieu." 

From  this  trial,  however,  she  was  spared.  Pio  Nono 
hesitated  to  send  the  civic  guard  to  the  north  of  Italy. 
Then  Margaret  writes:  —  "On  our  own  account,  love, 
I  shall  be  most  grateful,  if  you  are  not  obliged  to  go. 
But  how  unworthy,  in  the  Pope !  He  seems  now  a 
man  without  a  heart.  And  that  traitor,  Charles  Albert! 
He  will  bear  the  curse  of  all  future  ages.  Can  you 
learn  particulars  from  Milan  ?  I  feel  sad  for  our  poor 
friends  there ;  how  much  they  must  suffer  !  *  *  *  I 
shall  be  much  more  tranquil  to  have  you  at  my  side, 
for  it  would  be  sad  to  die  alone,  without  the  touch  of 
one  dear  hand.  Still,  I  repeat  what  I  said  in  my  last ; 
if  duty  prevents  you  from  coming,  I  will  endeavor  to 
take  care  of  myself."  Again,  two  days  later,  she  says : 
—  "I  feel,  love,  a  profound  sympathy  with  you,  but 
am  not  able  to  give  perfectly  wise  counsel.  It  seems  to 
me,  indeed,  the  worst  possible  moment  to  take  up  arms, 
except  in  the  cause  of  duty,  of  honor;  for,  with  the 
Pope  so  cold,  and  his  ministers  so  undecided,  nothing 
can  be  well  or  successfully  done.  If  it  is  possible  for 
you  to  wait  for  two  or  three  weeks,  the  public  state  will 
be  determined,  —  as  will  also  mine,  —  and  you  can 
judge  more  calmly.  Otherwise,  it  seems  to  me  that  I 
ought  to  say  nothing.  Only,  if  you  go,  come  here  first. 
I  must  see  you  once  more.  Adieu,  dear.  Our  mislor- 
tunes  are  many  and  unlocked  for.  Not  often  does  des- 
tiny demand  a  greater  price  for  some  happy  moments. 
Yet  never  do  I  repent  of  our  affection ;  and  for  thee,  if 
not  for  me,  I  hope  that  life  has  still  some  good  in  store. 
Once  again,  adieu!  May  God  give  thee  counsel  and 


help,  since  they  are  not  in  the  power  of  thy  affectionate 
Margherita." 

On  the  5th  of  September,  Ossoli  was  "at  her  side," 
and  together,  with  glad  and  grateful  hearts,  they  wel- 
comed their  boy;  though  the  father  was  compelled  to 
return  the  next  day  to  Rome.  Even  then,  however,  a 
new  chapter  of  sorrows  was  opening.  By  indiscreet 
treatment,  Margaret  was  thrown  into  violent  fever,  and 
became  unable  to  nurse  her  child.  Her  waiting  maid, 
also,  proved  so  treacherous,  that  she  was  forced  to  dis- 
miss her,  and  wished  "never  to  set  eyes  on  her  more ;"  and 
the  family,  with  whom  she  was  living,  displayed  most 
detestable  meanness.  Thus  helpless,  ill,  and  solitary, 
she  could  not  even  now  enjoy  the  mother's  privilege.  Yet 
she  writes  cheerfully  :  —  "  My  present  nurse  is  a  very 
good  one,  and  I  feel  relieved.  We  must  have  courage ; 
but  it  is  a  great  care,  alone  and  ignorant,  to  guard  an 
infant  in  its  first  days  of  life.  He  is  very  pretty  for  his 
age;  and,  without  knowing  what  name  I  intended  giving 
him,  the  people  in  the  house  call  him  Angiolino,  because 
he  is  so  lovely."  Again :  —  "  He  is  so  dear !  It  seems 
to  me,  among  all  disasters  and  difficulties,  that  if  he 
lives  and  is  well,  he  will  become  a  treasure  for  us  two, 
that  will  compensate  us  for  everything."  And  yet 

again  :  —  "  This  is  faithless,  like  the  rest.  Spite 

of  all  his  promises,  he  will  not  bring  the1  matter  to  inoc- 
ulate Nino,  though,  all  about  us,  persons  are  dying  with 
small-pox.  I  cannot  sleep  by  night,  and  I  weep  by 
day,  I  am  so  disgusted ;  but  you  are  too  far  off  to  help 
me.  The  baby  is  more  beautiful  every  hour.  He  is 
worth  all  the  trouble  he  causes  me, — poor  child  that 
I  am,  —  alone  here,  and  abused  by  everybody." 

Yet  new  struggles;  new  sorrows  !     Ossoli  writes :  — 


RIETI.  299 

"Our  affairs  must  be  managed  with  the  utmost  caution 
imaginable,  since  my  thought  would  be  to  keep  the 
baby  out  of  Rome  for  the  sake  of  greater  secrecy,  if 
only  we  can  find  a  good  nurse  who  will  take  care  of 
him  like  a  mother."  To  which  Margaret  replies :  — 
"  He  is  always  so  charming,  how  can  I  ever,  ever,  leave 
him!  I  wake  in  the  night,  —  I  look  at  him.  I  think: 
Ah,  it  is  impossible !  He  is  so  beautiful  and  good,  I 
could  die  for  him !  "  Once  more  :  —  "  In  seeking  rooms, 
do  not  pledge  me  to  remain  in  Rome,  for  it  seems  to 
me,  often,  I  cannot  stay  long  without  seeing  the  boy. 
He  is  so  dear,  and  life  seems  so  uncertain.  It  is  neces- 
sary that  I  should  be  in  Rome  a  month,  at  least,  to  write, 
and  also  to  be  near  you.  But  I  must  be  free  to  return 
here,  if  I  feel  too  anxious  and  suffering  for  him.  O, 
love  !  how  difficult  is  life  !  But  thou  art  good !  If  it 
were  only  possible  to  make  thee  happy !  "  And,  finally, 

"Signora   speaks   very   highly  of  ,  the  nurse  of 

Angelo.  and  says  that  her  aunt  is  an  excellent  woman, 
and  that  the  brothers  are  all  good.  Her  conduct  pleases 
me  well.  This  consoles  me  a  little,  in  the  prospect  of 
leaving  my  child,  if  that  is  necessary." 

So,  early  in  November,  Ossoli  came  for  her,  and  they 
returned  together.  In  December,  however,  Margaret 
passed  a  week  more  with  her  darling,  making  two 
fatiguing  and  perilous  journeys,  as  snows  had  fallen  on 
the  mountains,  and  the  streams  were  much  swollen  by 
the  rains.  And  then,  from  the  combined  motives  of 
being  near  her  husband,  watching  and  taking  part  in 
the  impending  struggle  of  liberalism,  earning  support  by 
her  pen,  preparing  her  book,  and  avoiding  suspicion,  she 
remained  for  three  months  in  Rome.  "  How  many 
nights  I  have  passed,"  she  writes,  "entirely  in  contriv- 


300  EUROPE. 

ing  possible  means,  by  which,  through  resolution  and 
effort  on  my  part,  that  one  sacrifice  could  be  avoided. 
But  it  was  impossible.  I  could  not  take  the  nurse  from 
her  family;  I  could  not  remove  Angelo,  without  im- 
mense difficulty  and  risk.  It  is  singular,  how  every- 
thing has  worked  to  give  me  more  and  more  sorrow. 
Could  I  but  have  remained  in  peace,  cherishing  the 
messenger  dove,  I  should  have  asked  no  more,  but 
should  have  felt  overpaid  for  all  the  pains  and  baf- 
flings  of  my  sad  and  broken  life."  In  March,  she  flies 
back  to  Rieti,  and  finds  "our  treasure  in  the  best  of 
health,  and  plump,  though  small.  When  first  I  took 
him  in  my  arms,  he  made  no  sound,  but  leaned  his  head 
against  my  bosom,  and  kept  it  there,  as  if  he  would  say, 
How  could  you  leave  me  ?  They  told  me,  that  all  the 
day  of  my  departure  he  would  not  -be  comforted, 
always  looking  toward  the  door.  He  has  been  a 
strangely  precocious  infant,  I  think,  through  sympathy 
with  me,  for  I  worked  very  hard  before  his  birth,  with 
the  hope  that  all  my  spirit  might  be  incarnated  in  him. 
In  that  regard,  it  may  have  been  good  for  him  to  be 
with  these  more  instinctively  joyous  natures.  I  see  that 
he  is  more  serene,  is  less  sensitive,  than  when  with  me, 
and  sleeps  better.  The  most  solid  happiness  I  have 
known  has  been  when  he  has  gone  to  sleep  in  my 
arms.  What  cruel  sacrifices  have  I  made  to  guard  my 
secret  for  the  present,  and  to  have  the  mode  of  disclos- 
ure at  my  own  option !  It  will,  indeed,  be  just  like  all 
the  rest,  if  these  sacrifices  are  made  in  vain." 

At  Rieti,  Margaret  rested  till  the  middle  of  April, 
when,  returning  once  more  to  Rome,  she  was,  as  we 
have  seen,  shut  up  within  the  beleagured  city. 


RIETI.  301 

The  siege  ended,  the  anxious  mother  was  free  to  seek 
her  child  once  more,  in  his  nest  among  the  mountains. 
Her  fears  had  been  but  too  prophetic.  "  Though  the 
physician  sent  me  reassuring  letters,"  she  writes,  "I  yet 
often  seemed  to  hear  Angelino  calling  to  me  amid  the  roar 
of  the  cannon,  and  always  his  tone  was  of  crying.  And 
when  I  came,  I  found  mine  own  fast  waning  to  the  tomb  ! 
His  nurse,  lovely  and  innocent  as  she  appeared,  had 
betrayed  him,  for  lack  of  a  few  scudi !  He  was  worn 
to  a  skeleton ;  his  sweet,  childish  grace  all  gone  !  'Every- 
thing I  had  endured  seemed  light  to  what  I  felt  when  I 
saw  him  too  weak  to  smile,  or  lift  his  wasted  little  hand. 
Now,  by  incessant  care,  we  have  brought  him  back,  — 
who  knows  if  that  be  a  deed  of  love?  —  into  this  hard 
world  once  more.  But  I  could  not  let  him  go,  unless  I 
went  with  him;  and  I  do  hope  that  the  cruel  law  of  my 
life  will,  at  least,  not  oblige  us  to  be  separated.  When  I 
saw  his  first  returning  smile,  —  that  poor,  wan,  feeble 
smile !  —  and  more  than  four  weeks  we  watched  him 
night  and  day,  before  we  saw  it, — new  resolution 
dawned  in  my  heart.  I  resolved  to  live,  day  by  day, 
hour  by  hour,  for  his  dear  sake.  So,  if  he  is  only  treas- 
ure lent,  —  if  he  too  must  go,  as  sweet  Waldo,  Pickie, 
Hermann,  did, — as  all  my  children  do! — I  shall  at 
least  have  these  days  and  hours  with  him." 

How  intolerable  was  this  last  blow  to  one  stretched  so 
long  on  the  rack,  is  plain  from  Margaret's  letters.  "I 
shall  never  again,"  she  writes,  "  be  perfectly,  be  relig- 
iously generous,  so  terribly  do  I  need  for  myself  the  love 
I  have  given  to  other  sufferers.  When  you  read  this, 
I  hope  your  heart  will  be  happy ;  for  I  still  like  to  know 
that  others  are  happy,  —  it  consoles  me."  Again  her 
agony  wrung  from  her  these  bitter  words,  —  the  bitterest 

vor,.  n.  26 


302  EUROPE. 

she  ever  uttered, —  words  of  transient  madness,  yet  most 
characteristic  :  —  "  Oh  God  !  help  me,  is  all  my  cry.  Yet 
I  have  little  faith  in  the  Paternal  love  I  need,  so  ruthless 
or  so  negligent  seems  the  government  of  this  earth.  I 
feel  calm,  yet  sternly,  towards  Fate.  This  last  plot 
against  me  has  been  so  cruelly,  cunningly  wrought,  that 
I  shall  never  acquiesce.  I  submit,  because  useless  resist- 
ance is  degrading,  but  I  demand  an  explanation.  I  see 
that  it  is  probable  I  shall  never  receive  one,  while  I  live 
here,  and  suppose  I  can  bear  the  rest  of  the  suspense, 
since  I  have  comprehended  all  its  difficulties  in  the  first 
moments.  Meanwhile,  I  live  day  by  day,  though  not 
on  manna."  But  now  comes  a  sweeter,  gentler  strain  :  — 
"I  have  been  the  object  of  great  love  from  the  noble  and 
the  humble ;  I  have  felt  it  towards  both.  Yet  I  arn  tired 
out,  —  tired  of  thinking  and  hoping. — tired  of  seeing 
men  err  and  bleed.  I  take  interest  in  some  plans,. — 
Socialism  for  instance,  —  but  the  interest  is  shallow  as 
the  plans.  These  are  needed,  are  even  good ;  but  man 
will  still  blunder  and  weep,  as  he  has  done  for  so  many 
thousand  years.  Coward  and  footsore,  gladly  would  I 
creep  into  some  green  recess,  where  I  might  see  a  few 
not  unfriendly  faces,  and  where  not  more  wretches 
should  come  than  I  could  relieve.  Yes !  I  am  weary, 
and  faith  soars  and  sings  no  more.  Nothing  good  of  me 
is  left  except  at  the  bottom  of  the  heart,  a  melting  ten- 
derness :  —  '  She  loves  much.'  " 

CALM    AFTER    STORM. 

Morning  rainbows  usher  in  tempests,  and  certainly 
youth's  romantic  visions  had  prefigured  a  stormy  day  of 
life  for  Margaret.  But  there  was  yet  to  be  a  serene  and 


CALM   AFTER    STORM.  303 

glowing  hour  before  the  sun  went  down.  Angelo  grew 
strong  and  lively  once  more;  rest  and  peace  restored  her 
elasticity  of  spirit,  and  extracts  from  various  letters  will 
show  in  what  tranquil  blessedness,  the  autumn  and  win- 
ter glided  by.  After  a  few  weeks'  residence  at  Rieti,  the 
happy  three  journeyed  on,  by  way  of  Perugia,  to  Flor- 
ence, where  they  arrived  at  the  end  of  September.  Thence, 
Margaret  writes :  — 

It  was  so  pleasant  at  Perugia !  The  pure  mountain 
air  is  such  perfect  elixir,  the  walks  are  so  beautiful  on 
every  side,  and  there  is  so  much  to  excite  generous  and 
consoling  feelings !  I  think  the  works  of  the  Umbrian 
school  are  never  well  seen  except  in  th.eir  home ;  —  they 
suffer  by  comparison  with  works  more  rich  in  coloring, 
more  genial,  more  full  of  common  life.  The  depth  and 
tenderness  of  their  expression  is  lost  on  an  observer  stim- 
ulated to  a  point  out  of  their  range.  Now,  I  can  prize 
them.  We  went  every  morning  to  some  church  rich  in 
pictures,  returning  at  noon  for  breakfast.  After  break- 
fast, we  went  into  the  country,  or  to  sit  and  read  under 
the  trees  near  San  Pietro.  Thus  I  read  Nicolo  di' 
Lapi,  a  book  unenlivened  by  a  spark  of  genius,  but 
interesting,  to  me,  as  illustrative  of  Florence. 

Our  little  boy  gained  strength  rapidly  there :  —  every 
day  he  was  able  to  go  out  with  us  more.  He  is  now 
full  of  life  and  gayety.  We  hope  he  will  live,  and  grow 
into  a  stout  man  yet. 

Our  journey  here  was  delightful ;  —  it  is  the  first  time 
I  have  seen  Tuscany  when  the  purple  grape  hangs  gar- 
landed from  tree  to  tree.  We  were  in  the  early  days  of 
the  vintage:  the  fields  were  animated  by  men  and 
women,  some  of  the  latter  with  such  pretty  little  bare 


304  EUROPE. 

feet,  and  shy,  soft  eyes,  under  the  round  straw  hat . 
They  were  beginning  to  cut  the  vines,  but  had  not  done 
enough  to  spoil  any  of  the  beauty. 

Here,  too,  I  feel  better  pleased  than  ever  before.  Flor- 
ence seems  so  cheerful  and  busy,  after  ruined  Rome,  I 
feel  as  if  I  could  forget  the  disasters  of  the  day,  for  a 
while,  in  looking  on  the  treasures  she  inherits. 

***** 

To-day  we  have  been  out  in  the  country,  and  found 
a  little  chapel,  full  of  contadinc,  their  lovers  waiting 
outside  the  door.  They  looked  charming  in  their  black 
veils,  —  the  straw  hat  hanging  on  the  arm,  —  with  shy, 
glancing  eyes,  and  cheeks  pinched  rosy  by  the  cold; 
for  it  is  cold  here  as  in  New  England.  On  foot,  we 
have  explored  a  great  part  of  the  environs ;  and  till  now 
I  had  no  conception  of  their  beauty.  When  here  before, 
I  took  only  the  regular  drives,  as  prescribed  for  all  lady 
and  gentlemen  travellers.  This  evening  we  returned  by 
a  path  that  led  to  the  banks  of  the  Arno.  The  Duomo, 
with  the  snowy  mountains,  were  glorious  in  the  rosy  tint 
and  haze,  just  before  sunset.  What  a  difference  it  makes 
to  come  home  to  a  child !  —  how  it  fills  up  all  the  gaps 
of  life,  just  in  the  way  that  is  most  consoling,  most  re- 
freshing !  Formerly,  fused  to  feel  sad  at  that  hour ;  the 
day  had  not  been  nobly  spent,  I  had  not  done  my  duty 
to  myself  and  others,  and  I  felt  so  lonely  !  Now  I  nev^r 
feel  lonely;  for,  even  if  my  little  boy  dies,  our  souls  will 
remain  eternally  united.  And  I  feel  infinite  hope  for 
him,  —  hope  that  he  will  serve  God  and  man  more  loy- 
ally than  I  have  done;  and,  seeing  how  full  he  is  of  life, 
—  how  much  he  can  afford  to  throw  away,  —  I  feel  the 
inexhaustibleness  of  nature,  and  console  myself  for  my 
own  incapacities. 


FLORENCE.  305 

Florence,  Oct.  14,  1849.  —  Weary  in  spirit,  with  the 
deep  disappointments  of  the  last  year,  I  wish  to  dwell 
little  on  these  things  for  the  moment,  but  seek  some  con- 
solation in  the  affections.  My  little  boy  is  quite  well 
now,  and  I  often  am  happy  in  seeing  how  joyous  and 
full  of  activity  he  seems.  Ossoli,  too,  feels  happier  here. 
The  future  is  full  of  difficulties  for  us,  but,  having  settled 
our  plans  for  the  present,  we  shall  set  it  aside  while 
we  may.  "Sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof;" 
and  if  the  good  be  not  always  sufficient,  in  our  case  it 
is ;  so  let  us  say  grace  to  our  dinner  of  herbs. 

Florence,  Nov.  7.  —  Dearest  Mother,  —  Of  all  your 
endless  acts  and  words  of  love,  never  was  any  so  dear  to 
me  as  your  last  letter ;  —  so  generous,  so  sweet,  so  holy ! 
What  on  earth  is  so  precious  as  a  mother's  love ;  and 
who  has  a  mother  like  mine  ! 

I  was  thinking  of  you  and  my  father,  all  that  first  day 
of  October,  wishing  to  write,  only  there  was  much  to 
disturb  me  that  day,  as  the  police  were  threatening  to 
send  us  away.  It  is  only  since  I  have  had  my  own 
child  that  I  have  known  how  much  I  always  failed  to 
do  what  I  might  have  done  for  the  happiness  of  you 
both ;  only  since  I  have  seen  so  much  of  men  and  their 
trials,  that  I  have  learned  to  prize  my  father  as  he  de- 
served; only  since  I  have  had  a  heart  daily  and  hourly 
testifying  to  me  its  love,  that  I  have  understood,  too  late, 
what  it  was  for  you  to  be  deprived  of  it.  It  seems  to  me 
as  if  I  had  never  sympathized  with  you  as  I  ought,  or 
tried  to  embellish  and  sustain  your  life,  as  far  as  is  pos- 
sible, after  such  an  irreparable  wound. 

It  will  be  sad  for  me  to  leave  Italy,  uncertain  of 
return.  Yet  when  I  think  of  you,  beloved  mother ;  of 

VOL.  ii.  26* 


306  EUROPE. 

brothers  and  sisters,  and  many  friends,  I  wish  to  come. 
Ossoli  is  perfectly  willing.  He  leaves  in  Rome  a  sister, 
whom  he  dearly  loves.  His  aunt  is  dying  now.  He 
will  go  among  strangers;  but  to  him,  as  to  all  the  young 
Italians,  America  seems  the  land  of  liberty.  He  hopes, 
too,  that  a  new  revolution  will  favor  return,  after  a  num- 
ber of  years,  and  that  then  he  may  find  really  a  home  in 
Italy.  All  this  is  dark ;  —  we  can  judge  only  for  the 
present  moment.  The  decision  will  rest  with  me,  and  I 
shall  wait  till  the  last  moment,  as  I  always  do,  that  I 
may  have  all  the  reasons  before  me. 

I  thought,  to-day,  ah,  if  she  could  only  be  with  us 
now  !  But  who  knows  how  long  this  interval  of  peace 
will  last  ?  I  have  learned  to  prize  such,  as  the  halcyon 
prelude  to  the  storm.  It  is  now  about  a  fortnight,  since 
the  police  gave  us  leave  to  stay,  and  we  feel  safe  in  our 
little  apartment.  We  have  no  servant  except  the  nurse, 
with  occasional  aid  from  the  porter's  wife,  and  now  live 
comfortably  so,  tormented  by  no  one,  helping  ourselves. 
In  the  evenings,  we  have  a  little  fire  now;  —  the  baby 
sits  on  his  stool  between  us.  He  makes  me  think  how  I 
sat  on  mine,  in  the  chaise,  between  you  and  father.  He 
is  exceedingly  fond  of  flowers ;  —  he  has  been  enchanted, 
this  evening,  by  this  splendid  Gardenia,  and  these  many 
crimson  flowers  that  were  given  me  at  Villa  Correggi, 
where  a  friend  took  us  in  his  carriage.  It  was  a  luxury, 
this  ride,  as  we  have  entirely  renounced  the  use  of  a  car- 
riage for  ourselves.  How  enchanted  you  would  have 
been  with  that  villa !  It  seems  now  as  if,  with  the  cer- 
tainty of  a  very  limited  income,  we  could  be  so  happy ! 
But  I  suppose,  if  we  had  it,  one  of  us  would  die,  or  the 
baby.  Do  not  you  die,  my  beloved  mother; — let  us 
together  have  some  halcyon  moments,  again,  with  God, 


FLORENCE.  307 

with  nature;  with  sweet  childhood,  with  the  remem- 
brance of  pure  trust  and  good  intent;  away  from  perfidy 
and  care,  and  the  blight  of  noble  designs. 

Ossoli  wishes  you  were  here,  almost  as  much  as  I. 
When  there  is  anything  really  lovely  and  tranquil,  he 
often  says,  " Would  not  lLa  Madre'  like  that?"  He 
wept  when  he  heard  your  letter.  I  never  saw  him  weep 
at  any  other  time,  except  when  his  father  died,  and 
when  the  French  entered  Rome.  He  has,  I  think,  even 
a  more  holy  feeling  about  a  mother,  from  having  lost  his 
own,  when  very  small.  It  has  been  a  life-long  want  with 
him.  He  often  shows  me  a  little  scar  on  his  face,  made 
by  a  jealous  dog,  when  his  mother  was  caressing  him  as 
an  infant.  He  prizes  that  blemish  much. 

Florence,  December  1,  1849.  —  I  do  not  know  what  to 
write  about  the  baby,  he  changes  so  much,  —  has  so 
many  characters.  He  is  like  me  in  that,  for  his  father's 
character  is  simple  and  uniform,  though  not  monotonous, 
any  more  than  are  the  flowers  of  spring  flowers  of  the 
valley.  Angelino  is  now  in  the  most  perfect  rosy  health, 
—  a  very  gay,  impetuous,  ardent,  but  sweet-tempered 
child.  He  seems  to  me  to  have  nothing  in  common  with 
his  first  babyhood,  with  its  ecstatic  smiles,  its  exquisite 
sensitiveness,  and  a  distinction  in  the  gesture  and  atti- 
tudes that  struck  everybody.  His  temperament  is  ap- 
parently changed  by  taking  the  milk  of  these  robust 
women.  He  is  now  come  to  quite  a  knowing  age,  — 
fifteen  months. 

In  the  morning,  as  soon  as  dressed,  he  signs  to 
come  into  our  room;  then  draws  our  curtain  with  his 
little  dimpled  hand,  kisses  me  rather  violently,  pats 
my  face,  laughs,  crows,  shows  his  teeth,  blows  like  the 


308  EUROPE. 

bellows,  stretches  himself,  and  says  "bravo."  Then, 
having  shown  off  all  his  accomplishments,  he  expects, 
as  a  reward,  to  be  tied  in  his  chair,  and  have  his  play- 
things. These  engage  him  busily,  but  still  he  calls  to 
us  to  sing  and  drum,  to  enliven  the  scene.  Sometimes 
he  summons  me  to  kiss  his  hand,  and  laughs  very  much 
at  this.  Enchanting  is  that  baby-laugh,  all  dimples  and 
glitter,  —  so  strangely  arch  and  innocent !  Then  I  wash 
and  dress  him.  That  is  his  great  time.  He  makes  it 
last  as  long  as  he  can,  insisting  to  dress  and  wash  me 
the  while,  kicking,  throwing  the  water  about,  and  full 
of  all  manner  of  tricks,  such  as,  I  think,  girls  never 
dream  of.  Then  comes  his  walk;  —  we  have  beautiful 
walks  here  for  him,  protected  by  fine  trees,  always  warm 
in  mid-winter.  The  bands  are  playing  in  the  distance, 
and  children  of  all  ages  are  moving  about,  and  sitting 
with  their  nurses.  His  walk  and  sleep  give  me  about 
three  hours  in  the  middle  of  the  day. 

I  feel  so  refreshed  by  his  young  life,  and  Ossoli  dif- 
fuses such  a  power  and  sweetness  over  every  day,  that  I 
cannot  endure  to  think  yet  of  our  future.  Too  much 
have  we  suffered  already,  trying  to  command  it.  I 
do  not  feel  force  to  make  any  effort  yet.  I  suppose 
that  very  soon  now  I  must  do  something,  and  hbpe  I 
shall  feel  able  when  the  time  comes.  My  constitution 
seems  making  an  effort  to  rally,  by  dint  of  much  sleep. 
I  had  slept  so  little,  for  a  year  and  a  half,  and,  after  the 
birth  of  the  child,  I  had  such  anxiety  and  anguish  when 
separated  from  him,  that  I  was  consumed  as  by  nighily 
fever.  The  last  two  months  at  Rome  would  have 
destroyed  almost  any  woman.  Then,  when  I  went  to 
him,  he  was  so  ill,  and  I  was  constantly  up  with  him  at 
night,  carrying  him  about.  Now,  for  two  months,  we 


FLORENCE.  309 

have  been  tranquil.  We  have  resolved  to  enjoy  being 
together  as  much  as  we  can,  in  this  brief  interval,  — 
perhaps  all  we  shall  ever  know  of  peace.  It  is  very  sad 
we  have  no  money,  we  could  be  so  quietly  happy  a 
while.  I  rejoice  in  all  Ossoli  did ;  but  the  results,  in  this 
our  earthly  state,  are  disastrous,  especially  as  my  strength 
is  now  so  impaired.  This  much  I  hope,  in  life  or  death, 
to  be  no  more  separated  from  Angelino. 

Last  winter,  I  made  the  most  vehement  efforts  at  least 
to  redeem  the  time,  hoping  thus  good  for  the  future. 
But,  of  at  least  two  volumes  written  at  that  time,  no  line 
seems  of  any  worth.  I  had  suffered  much  constraint,  — 
much  that  was  uncongenial,  harassing,  even  torturing, 
before;  but  this  kind  of  pain  found  me  unprepared;  — 
the  position  of  a  mother  separated  from  her  only  child  is 
too  frightfully  unnatural. 

***** 

The  Christmas  holidays  interest  me  now,  through  my 
child,  as  they  never  did  for  myself.  I  like  to  go  out  to 
watch  the  young  generation  who  will  be  his  contempo- 
raries. On  Monday,  we  went  to  the  Cascine.  After  we 
had  taken  the  drive,  we  sat  down  on  a  stone  seat  in  the 
sunny  walk,  to  see  the  people  pass ;  —  the  Grand  Duke 
and  his  children;  the  elegant  Austrian  officers,  who  will 
be  driven  out  of  Italy  when  Angelino  is  a  man;  Princess 
Demidoff;  Harry  Lorrequer;  an  absurd  brood  of  fops; 
many  lovely  children;  many  little  frisking  dogs,  with 
their  bells,  &c.  The  sun  shone  brightly  on  the  Arno;  a 
barque  moved  gently  by;  all  seemed  good  to  the  baby. 
He  laid  himself  back  in  my  arms,  smiling,  singing  to 
himself,  and  dancing  his  feet.  I  hope  he  will  retain 
some  trace  in  his  mind  of  the  perpetual  exhilarating  pic- 
ture of  Italy.  It  cannot  but  be  important  in  its  influence. 


310  EUROPE. 

while  yet  a  child,  to  walk  in  these  stately  gardens,  full 
of  sculpture,  and  hear  the  untiring  music  of  the  foun- 
tains. 

Christmas-eve  we  went  to  the  Annunziata,  for  mid- 
night mass.  Though  the  service  is  not  splendid  here  as 
in  Rome,  we  yet  enjoyed  it ;  —  sitting  in  one  of  the  side 
chapels,  at  the  foot  of  a  monument,  watching  the  rich 
crowds  steal  gently  by,  every  eye  gleaming,  every  ges- 
ture softened  by  the  influence  of  the  pealing  choir,  and 
the  hundred  silver  lamps  swinging  their  full  light,  in 
honor  of  the  abused  Emanuel. 

But  far  finest  was  it  to  pass  through  the  Duomo.  No 
one  was  there.  Only  the  altars  were  lit  up,  and  the 
priests,  who  were  singing,  could  not  be  seen  by  the  faint 
light.  The  vast  solemnity  of  the  interior  is  thus  really 
felt.  The  hour  was  worthy  of  Brunelleschi.  I  hope  he 
walked  there  so.  The  Duomo  is  more  divine  than  St. 
Peter's,  and  worthy  of  genius  pure  and  unbroken.  St. 
Peter's  is,  like  Rome,  a  mixture  of  sublimest  heaven 
with  corruptest  earth.  I  adore  the  Duomo,  though  no 
place  can  now  be  to  me  like  St.  Peter's,  where  has  been 
passed  the  splendidest  part  of  my  life.  My  feeling  was 
always  perfectly  regal,  on  entering  the  piazza  of  St. 
Peter's.  No  spot  on  earth  is  worthier  the  sunlight;  — 
on  none  does  it  fall  so  fondly. 

***** 

You  ask  me,  how  I  employ  myself  here.  I  have  been 
much  engaged  in  writing  out  my  impressions,  which 
will  be  of  worth  so  far  as  correct.  I  am  anxious  only  to 
do  historical  justice  to  facts  and  persons;  but  there  will 
not,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  be  much  thought,  for  I  believe 
I  have  scarce  expressed  what  lies  deepest  in  my  mind. 
I  take  no  pains,  but  let  the  good  genius  guide  my  pen. 


FLORENCE.  311 

I  did  long  to  lead  a  simple,  natural  life,  at  home,  learn- 
ing of  my  child,  and  writing  only  when  imperatively 
urged  by  the  need -of  utterance;  but  when  we  were 
forced  to  give  up  the  hope  of  subsisting  on  a  narrow  inde- 
pendence, without  tie  to  the  public,  we  gave  up  the 
peculiar  beauty  of  our  lives,  and  I  strive  no  more.  I 
only  hope  to  make  good  terms  with  the  publishers. 

Then,  I  have  been  occupied  somewhat  in  reading 
Louis  Blanc's  Ten  Years,  Lamartine's  Girondists,  and 
other  books  of  that  class,  which  throw  light  on.  recent 
transactions. 

I  go  into  society,  too,  somewhat,  and  see  several  de- 
lightful persons,  in  an  intimate  way.  The  Americans 
meet  twice  a  week,  at  the  house  of  Messrs.  Mozier  and 
Chapman,  and  I  am  often  present,  on  account  of  the 
friendly  interest  of  those  resident  here.  With  our  friends, 
the  Greenoughs,  I  have  twice  gone  to  the  opera.  Then 
I  see  the  Brownings  often,  and  love  and  admire  them 
both,  more  and  more,  as  I  know  them  better.  Mr. 
Browning  enriches  every  hour  I  pass  with  him,  and  is  a 
most  cordial,  true,  and  noble  man.  One  of  my  most 
highly  prized  Italian  friends,  also,  Marchioness  Arconati 
Visconti,  of  Milan,  is  passing  the  winter  here,  and  I  see 
her  almost  every  day. 

***** 

My  love  for  Ossoli  is  most  pure  and  tender,  nor  has 
any  one,  except  my  mother  or  little  children,  loved  me  so 
genuinely  as  he  does.  To  some,  I  have  been  obliged  to 
make  myself  known :  others  have  loved  me  with  a  mix- 
ture of  fancy  and  enthusiasm,  excited  by  my  talent  at 
embellishing  life.  But  Ossoli  loves  me  from  simple 
affinity:  —  he  loves  to  be  with  me,  and  to  serve  and 
soothe  me.  Life  will  probably  be  a  severe  struggle,  but 


312  EUROPE. 

I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  live  through  all  that  is  before 
us,  and  not  neglect  my  child  or  his  father.  He  has  suf- 
fered enough  since  we  met;  —  it  has  ploughed  furrows 
in  his  life.  He  has  done  all  he  could,  and  cannot  blame 
himself.  Our  outward  destiny  looks  dark,  but  we  must 
brave  it  as  we  can.  I  trust  we  shall  always  feel  mutual 
tenderness,  and  Ossoli  has  a  simple,  childlike  piety,  that 
will  make  it  easier  for  him. 

MARGARET  AND  HER  PEERS. 

Pure  and  peaceful  as  was  the  joy  of  Margaret's  Flor- 
ence winter,  it  was  ensured  and  perfected  by  the  fidelity 
of  friends,  who  hedged  around  with  honor  the  garden  of 
her  home.  She  had  been  called  to  pass  through  a  most 
trying  ordeal,  and  the  verdict  of  her  peers  was  heightened 
esteem  and  love.  With  what  dignified  gratitude  she 
accepted  this  well-earned  proof  of  confidence,  will  appear 
from  the  following  extracts. 

TO  MRS.  E.  s. 

Thus  far,  my  friends  have  received  news  that  must 
have  been  an  unpleasant  surprise  to  them,  in  a  way  that, 
a  moi,  does  them  great  honor.  None  have  shown  little- 
ness or  displeasure,  at  being  denied  my  confidence  while 
they  were  giving  their  own.  Many  have  expressed  the 
warmest  sympathy,  and  only  one  has  shown  a  disposi- 
tion to  transgress  the  limit  I  myself  had  marked,  and  to 
ask  questions.  With  her,  I  think,  this  was  because  she 
was  annoyed  by  what  people  said,  and  wished  to  be  able 
to  answer  them.  I  replied  to  her,  that  I  had  communi- 
cated already  all  I  intended,  and  should  not  go  into 


FLORENCE.  313 

detail ;  —  that  when  unkind  things  were  said  about  me, 

she  should  let  them  pass.     Will  you,  dear  E ,  do 

the  same  ?  I  am  sure  your  affection  for  me  will  prompt 
you  to  add,  that  you  feel  confident  whatever  I  have  done 
has  been  in  a  good  spirit,  and  not  contrary  to  my  ideas 
of  (right.  For  the  rest,  you  will  not  admit  for  me,  —  as 
I  do  not  for  myself,  —  the  rights  of  the  social  inquisition 
of  the  United  States  to  know  all  the  details  of  my  affairs. 
If  my  mother  is  content;  if  Ossoli  and  I  are  content;  if 
our  child,  when  grown  up,  shall  be  content;  that  is 
enough.  You  and  I  know  enough  of  the  United  States 
to  be  sure  that  many  persons  there  will  blame  whatever 
is  peculiar.  The  lower-minded  persons,  everywhere, 
are  sure  to  think  that  whatever  is  mysterious  must  be 
bad.  But  I  think  there  will  remain  for  me  a  sufficient 
number  of  friends  to  keep  my  heart  warm,  and  to  help 
me  earn  my  bread ;  —  that  is  all  that  is  of  any  conse- 
quence. Ossoli  seems  to  me  more  lovely  and  good  every 
day;  our  darling  child  is  well  now,  and  every  day  more 
gay  and  playful.  For  his  sake  I  shall  have  courage; 
and  hope  some  good  angel  will  show  us  the  way  out  of 
our  external  difficulties. 

TO  w.  w.  s. 

It  was  like  you  to  receive  with  such  kindness  the 
news  of  my  marriage.  A  less  generous  person  would 
have  been  displeased,  that,  when  we  had  been  drawn  so 
together,  —  when  we  had  talked  so  freely,  and  you  had 
shown  towards  me  such  sweet  friendship, — I  had  not 
told  you.  Often  did  I  long  to  do  so,  but  I  had,  for  rea- 
sons that  seemed  important,  made  a  law  to  myself  to 
keep  this  secret  as  rigidly  as  possible,  up  to  a  certain 

VOL.  n.  27 


314  EUROPE. 

moment.  That  moment  came.  Its  decisions  were  not 
such  as  I  had  hoped;  but  it  left  me,  at  least,  without 
that  painful  burden,  which  I  trust  never  to  bear  again. 
Nature  keeps  so  many  secrets,  that  I  had  supposed  the 
moral  writers  exaggerated  the  dangers  and  plagues  of 
keeping  them;  but  they  cannot  exaggerate.  All  that 
can  be  said  about  mine  is,  that  I  at  least  acted  out,  with, 
to  me,  tragic  thoroughness,  "  The  wonder,  a  woman 
keeps  a  secret."  As  to  my  not  telling  you,  I  can  merely 
say,  that  I  was  keeping  the  information  from  my  family 
and  dearest  friends  at  home ;  and,  had  you  remained  near 
me  a  very  little  later,  you  would  have  been  the  very  first 
person  to  whom  I  should  have  spoken,  as  you  would 
have  been  the  first,  on  this  side  of  the  water,  to  whom  I 
should  have  written,  had  I  known  where  to  address  you. 

Yet  I  hardly  hoped  for  your  sympathy,  dear  W . 

I  am  very  glad  if  I  have  it.  May  brotherly  love  ever  be 
returned  unto  you,  in  like  measure.  Ossoli  desires  his 
love  and  respect  to  be  testified  to  you  both. 

TO    THE    MARCHIONESS    VISCONTI  ARCONATI. 

Reading  a  book  called  "  The  Last  Days  of  the  Re- 
public in  Rome,"  I  see  that  my  letter,  giving  my  impres- 
sions of  that  period,  may  well  have  seemed  to  you 
strangely  partial.  If  we  can  meet  as  once  we  did,  and 
compare  notes  in  the  same  spirit  of  candor,  while  making 
mutual  allowance  for  our  different  pointy  of  view,  your 
testimony  and  opinions  would  be  invaluable  to  me.  But 
will  you  have  patience  with  my  democracy,  —  my  revo- 
lutionary spirit?  Believe  that  in  thought  L  am  more 
radical  than  ever.  The  heart  of  Margaret  you  know,  —  it 
is  always  the  same.  Mazzini  is  immortally  dear  to  me ; 


FLORENCE.  315 

—  a  thousand  times  dearer  for  all  the  trial  I  saw  made 
of  him  in  Rome ;  —  dearer  for  all  he  suffered.  Many  of 
his  brave  friends  perished  there.  We  who,  less  worthy, 
survive,  would  fain  make  up  for  the  loss,  by  our  in- 
creased devotion  to  him,  the  purest,  the  most  disinter- 
ested of  patriots,  the  most  affectionate  of  brothers.  You 
will  not  love  me  less  that  I  am  true  to  him. 

Then,  again,  how  will  it  affect  you  to  know  that  I  have 
united  my  destiny  with  that  of  an  obscure  young  man,  — 
younger  than  myself;  a  person  of  no  intellectual  culture, 
and  in  whom,  in  short,  you  will  see  no  reason  for  my 
choosing;  yet  more,  that  this  union  is  of  long  standing; 
that  we  have  with  us  our  child,  of  a  year  old,  and  that 
it  is  only  lately  I  acquainted  my  family  with  the  fact? 

If  you  decide  to  meet  with  me  as  before,  and  wish  to 
say  something  about  the  matter  to  your  friends,  it  will 
be  true  to  declare  that  there  have  been  pecuniary  reasons 
for  this  concealment.  But  to  you,  in  confidence,  I  add, 
this  is  only  half  the  truth;  and  I  cannot  explain,  or 
satisfy  my  dear  friend  further.  I  should  wish  to  meet 
her  independent  of  all  relations,  but,  as  we  live  in  the 
midst  of  "society,"  she  would  have  to  jnquire  for  me 
now  as  Margaret  Ossoli.  That  being  done,  I  should 
like  to  say  nothing  more  on  the  subject. 

However  you  may  feel  about  all  this,  dear  Madame 
Arconati,  you  will  always  be  the  same  in  my  eyes.  [ 
earnestly  wish  you  may  not  feel  estranged ;  but,  if  you 
do,  I  would  prefer  that  you  should  act  upon  it.  Let  us 
meet  as  friends,  or  not  at  all.  In  all  events,  I  remain 
ever  yours,  MARGARET. 


316  EUROPE. 

TO    THE   MARCHIONESS    VISCONT1   ARCONATI. 

My  loved  friend,  —  I  read  your  letter  with  greatest 
content.  I  did  not  know  but  that  there  might  seem  some- 
thing offensively  strange  in  the  circumstances  I  mentioned 
to  you.  Goethe  says,  "  There  is  nothing  men  pardon  so 
little  as  singular  conduct,  for  which  no  reason  is  given ;" 
and,  remembering  this,  I  have  been  a  little  surprised 
at  the  even  increased  warmth  of  interest  with  which  the 
little  American  society  of  Florence  has  received  me, 
with  the  unexpected  accessories  of  husband  and  child, 
—  asking  no  questions,  and  seemingly  satisfied  to  find 
me  thus  accompanied.  With  you,  indeed,  I  thought  it 
would  be  so,  because  you  are  above  the  world ;  only,  as 
you  have  always  walked  in  the  beaten  path,  though 
with  noble  port,  and  feet  undented,  I  thought  you  might 
not  like  your  friends  to  be  running  about  in  these  blind 
alleys.  It  glads  my  heart,  indeed,  that  you  do  not  care 
for  this,  and  that  we  may  meet  in  love. 

You  speak  of  our  children.  Ah !  dear  friend,  I  do, 
indeed,  feel  we  shall  have  deep  sympathy  there.  I  do 
not  believe  mine  will  be  a  brilliant  child,  and,  indeed,  I 
see  nothing  peculiar  about  him.  Yet  he  is  to  me  a 
source  of  ineffable  joys, — far  purer,  deeper,  than  anything 
I  ever  felt  before,  —  like  what  Nature  had  sometimes 
given,  but  more  intimate,  more  sweet.  He  loves  me 
very  much ;  his  little  heart  clings  to  mine.  I  trust,  if  he 
lives,  to  sow  there  no  seeds  which  are  not  good,  to  be 
always  growing  better  for  his  sake.  Ossoli,  too,  will 
be  a  good  father.  He  has  very  little  of  what  is  called 
intellectual  development,  but  unspoiled  instincts,  affec- 
tions pure  and  constant,  and  a  quiet  sense  of  duty,  which, 
to  me, — who  have  seen  much  of  the  great  faults  in  char- 


FLORENCE.  317 

acters  of  enthusiasm   and   genius,  —  seems  of  highest 
value. 

When  you  write  by  post,  please  direct  "Marchesa 
Ossoli,"  as  all  the  letters  come  to  that  address.  I  did 
not  explain  myself  on  that  point.  The  fact  is,  it  looks 
to  me  silly  for  a  radical  like  me  to  be  carrying  a  title ; 
and  yet,  while  Ossoli  is  in  his  native  land,  it  seems  dis- 
joining myself  from  him,  not  to  bear  it.  It  is  a  sort  of 
thing  that  does  not  naturally  belong  to  me,  and,  nnsus- 
tained  by  fortune,  is  but  a  souvenir  even  for  Ossoli.  Yet 
it  has  appeared  to  me,  that  for  him  to  drop  an  inherited 
title  would  be,  in  some  sort,  to  acquiesce  in  his  brothers' 
disclaiming  him,  and  to  abandon  a  right  he  may  pas- 
sively wish  to  maintain  for  his  child.  How  does  it  seem 
to  you?  I  am  not  very  clear  about  it.  If  Ossoli  should 
drop  the  title,  it  would  be  a  suitable  moment  to  do  so  on 
becoming  an  inhabitant  of  Republican  America. 

TO  MRS.  c.  T. 

What  you  say  of  the  meddling  curiosity  of  people 
repels  me,  it  is  so  different  here.  When  I  made  my 
appearance  with  a  husband  and  a  child  of  a  year  old, 
nobody  did  the  least  act  to  annoy  me.  All  were  most 
cordial;  none  asked  or  implied  questions.  Yet  there 
were  not  a  few  who  might  justly  have  complained,  that, 
when  they  were  confiding  to  me  all  their  affairs,  and 
doing  much  to  serve  me,  I  had  observed  absolute  silence 
to  them.  Others  might,  for  more  than  one  reason,  be 
displeased  at  the  choice  I  made.  All  have  acted  in  the 
kindliest  and  most  refined  manner.  An  Italian  lady, 
with  whom  I  was  intimate,  —  who  might  be  qualified  in 
the  Court  Journal,  as  one  of  the  highest  rank,  sustained 

VOL.  IT.  27* 


318  EUROPE. 

by  the  most  scrupulous  decorum, —  when  I  wrote,  "Dear 
friend,  I  am  married ;  I  have  a  child.  There  are  par- 
ticulars, as  to  my  reasons  for  keeping  this  secret,  I  do 
not  wish  to  tell.  This  is  rather  an  odd  affair;  will  it 
make  any  difference  in  our  relations  1"  —  answered, 
"What  difference  can  it  make,  except  that  I  shall  love 
you  more,  now  that  we  can  sympathize  as  mothers?" 
Her  first  visit  here  was  to  me;  she  adopted  at  once 
Ossoli  and  the  child  to  her  love. 

wrote  me  that was  a  little  hurt,  at  first, 

that  I  did  not  tell  him,  even  in  the  trying  days  of  Rome, 
but  left  him  to  hear  it,  as  he  unluckily  did,  at  the  table 
d'hote  in  Venice ;  but  his  second  and  prevailing  thought 
was  regret  that  he  had  not  known  it,  so  as  to  soothe  and 
aid  me,  — to  visit  Ossoli  at  his  post,  —  to  go  to  the  child 
in  the  country.  Wholly  in  that  spirit  was  the  fine  letter 
he  wrote  me,  one  of  my  treasures.  The  little  American 
society  have  been  most  cordial  and  attentive;  one  lady, 
who  has  been  most  intimate  with  me,  dropped  a  tear 
over  the  difficulties  before  me,  but  she  said,  "Since  you 
have  seen  fit  to  take  the  step,  all  your  friends  have  to 
do,  now,  is  to  make  it  as  easy  for  you  as  they  can." 

TO  MRS.  E.  s. 

I  am  glad  to  have  people  favorably  impressed,  because 
I  feel  lazy  and  weak,  unequal  to  the  trouble  of  friction, 
or  the  pain  of  conquest.  Still,  I  feel  a  good  deal  of  con- 
tempt for  those  so  easily  disconcerted  or  reassured.  I 
was  not  a  child ;  I  had  lived  in  the  midst  of  that  New 
England  society,  in  a  way  that  entitled  me  to  esteem, 
and  a  favorable  interpretation,  where  there  was  doubt 
about  my  motives  or  actions.  T  pity  those  who  are 


FLORENCE.  319 

inclined  to  think  ill,  when  they  might  as  well  have 
inclined  the  other  way.  However,  let  them  go ;  there 
are  many  in  the  world  who  stand  the  test,  enough  to 
keep  us  from  shivering  to  death.  I  am,  on  the  whole, 
fortunate  in  friends  whom  I  can  truly  esteem,  and  in 
whom  I  know  the  kernel  and  substance  of  their  being 
too  well  to  be  misled  by  seemings. 

TO  MRS.  c.  T. 

I  had  a  letter  from  my  mother,  last  summer,  speaking 
of  the  fact,  that  she  had  never  been  present  at  the  mar- 
riage of  one  of  her  children.  A  pang  of  remorse  came 
as  I  read  it,  and  I  thought,  if  Angelino  dies,*  I  will  not 
give  her  the  pain  of  knowing  that  I  have  kept  this  secret 
from  her ;  —  she  shall  hear  of  this  connection,  as  if  it 
were  something  new.  When  I  found  he  would  live,  I 
wrote  to  her  and  others.  It  half  killed  me  to  write  those 
few  letters,  and  yet,  I  know,  many  are  wondering  that  I 
did  not  write  more,  and  more  particularly.  My  mother 
received  my  communication  in  the  highest  spirit.  She 
said,  she  was  sure  a  first  object  with  me  had  been,  now 
and  always,  to  save  her  pain.  She  blessed  us.  She 
rejoiced  that  she  should  not  die  feeling  there  was  no  one 
left  to  love  me  with  the  devotion  she  thought  I  needed. 
She  expressed  no  regret  at  our  poverty,  but  offered  her 
feeble  means.  Her  letter  was  a  noble  crown  to  her  life 
of  disinterested,  purifying  love. 

*  This  was  when  Margaret  found  Nino  so  ill  at  Rieti. 


320         -  EUROPE. 


The  following  notes  respecting  Margaret's  residence  in 
Florence  were  furnished  to  the  editors  by  Mr.  W.  H. 
Hurlbut. 

I  passed  about  six  weeks  in  the  city  of  Florence, 
during  the  months  of  March  and  April,  1850.  During 
the  whole  of  that  time  Madame  Ossoli  was  residing  in  a 
house  at  the  corner  of  the  Via  della  Misericordia  and 
the  Piazza  Santa  Maria  Novella.  This  house  is  one  of 
those  large,  well  built  modern  houses  that  show  strangely 
in  the  streets  of  the  stately  Tuscan  city.  But  if  her 
rooms  were  less  characteristically  Italian,  they  were  the 
more  comfortable,  and,  though  small,  had  a  quiet,  home- 
like air.  Her  windows  opened  upon  a  fine  view  of  the 
beautiful  Piazza. ;  for  such  was  their  position,  that  while 
the  card-board  facade  of  the  church  of  Sta.  Maria  No- 
vella could  only  be  seen  at  an  angle,  the  exquisite  Cam- 
panile rose  fair  and  full  against  the  sky.  She  enjoyed 
this  most  graceful  tower  very  much,  and,  I  think, 
preferred  it  even  to  Giotto's  noble  work.  Its  quiet  reli- 
gious grace  was  grateful  to  her  spirit,  which  seemed  to 
be  yearning  for  peace  from  the  cares  that  had  so  vexed 
and  heated  the  world  about  her  for  a  year  past. 

I  saw  her  frequently  at  these  rooms,  where,  sur- 
rounded by  her  books  and  papers,  she  used  to  devote  her 
mornings  to  her  literary  labors.  Once  or  twice  I  called 
in  the  morning,  and  found  her  quite  immersed  in  manu- 
scripts and  journals.  Her  evenings  were  passed  usually 
in  the  society  of  her  friends,  at  her  own  rooms,  or  at 
theirs.  With  the  pleasant  circle  of  Americans,  then 
living  in  Florence,  she  was  on  the  best  terms,  and 
though  she  seemed  always  to  bring  with  her  her  own 


FLORENCE.  321 

most  intimate  society,  and  never  to  be  quite  free  from 
the  company  of  busy  thoughts,  and  the  cares  to  which 
her  life  had  introduced  her,  she  was  always  cheerful, 
and  her  remarkable  powers  of  conversation  subserved 
on  all  occasions  the  kindliest  purposes  of  good-will  in 
social  intercourse. 

The  friends  with  whom  she  seemed  to  be  on  the 
terms  of  most  sympathy,  were  an  Italian  lady,  the  Mar- 
chesa  Arconati  Visconti,* —  the  exquisite  sweetness  of 
whose  voice  interpreted,  even  to  those  who  knew  her 
only  as  a  transient  acquaintance,  the  harmony  of  her 
nature, —  and  some  English  residents  in  Florence,  among 
whom  I  need  only  name  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browning,  to  sat- 
isfy the  most  anxious  friends  of  Madame  Ossoli  that  the 
last  months  of  her  Italian  life  were  cheered  by  all  the 
light  that  communion  with  gifted  and  noble  natures 
could  afford. 

The  Marchesa  Arconati  used  to  persuade  Madame 
Ossoli  to  occasional  excursions  with  her  into  the  envi- 
rons of  Florence,  and  she  passed  some  days  of  the  beau- 
tiful spring  weather  at  the  villa  of  that  lady. 

Her  delight  in  nature  seemed  to  be  a  source  of  great 
comfort  and  strength  to  her.  I  shall  not  easily  forget 
the  account  she  gave  rne,  on  the  evening  of  one  delicious 
Sunday  in  April,  of  a  walk  which  she  had  taken  with 
her  husband  in  the  afternoon  of  that  day,  to  the  hill  of 
San  Miniato.  The  amethystine  beauty  of  the  Apen- 

*  Just  before  I  left  Florence,  Madame  Ossoli  showed  me  a  small  mar- 
ble figure  of  a  child,  playing  among  flowers  or  vine  leaves,  which,  she 
said,  was  a  portrait  of  the  child  of  Madame  Arconati,  presented  to  her 
by  that  lady.  I  mention  this  circumstance,  because  I  have  understood 
that  a  figure  answering  this  description  was  recovered  from  the  wreck  of 
the  Elizabeth. 


nines,  —  the  cypress  trees  that  sentinel  the  way  up  to 
the  ancient  and  deserted  church,  —  the  church  itself, 
standing  high  and  lonely  on  its  hill,  begirt  with  the 
vine-clad,  crumbling  walls  of  Michel  Angelo,  —  the 
repose  of  the  dome-crowned  city  in  the  vale  below,  — 
seemed  to  have  wrought  their  impression  with  peculiar 
force  upon  her  mind  that  afternoon.  On  their  way  home, 
they  had  entered  the  conventual  church  that  stands  half 
way  up  the  hill,  just  as  the  vesper  service  was  begin- 
ning, and  she  spoke  of  the  simple  spirit  of  devotion  that 
filled  the  place,  and  of  the  gentle  wonder  with  which,  to 
use  her  own  words,  the  "peasant  women  turned  their 
glances,  the  soft  dark  glances  of  the  Tuscan  peasant's 
eyes,"  upon  the  strangers,  with  a  singular  enthusiasm. 
She  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  such  .walks  with  her 
husband,  and  she  never  returned  from  one  of  them,  I 
believe,  without  some  new  impression  of  beauty  and  of 
lasting  truth.  While  her  judgment,  intense  in  its  sin- 
cerity, tested,  like  an  aqua  regia,  the  value  of  all  facts 
that  came  within  her  notice,  her  sympathies  seemed,  by 
an  instinctive  and  unerring  action,  to  transmute  all  her 
experiences  instantly  into  permanent  treasures. 

The  economy  of  the  house  in  which  she  lived  afforded 
me  occasions  for  observing  the  decisive  power,  both  of 
control  and  of  consolation,  which  she  could  exert  of  er 
others.  Her  maid, — an  impetuous  girl  of  Rieti,  a  town 
which  rivals  Tivoli  as  a  hot-bed  of  homicide,  —  was 
constantly  involved  in  disputes  with  a  young  Jewess, 
who  occupied  the  floor  above  Madame  Ossoli.  On  one 
occasion,  this  Jewess  offered  the  maid  a  deliberate  and 
unprovoked  insult.  The  girl  of  Rieti,  snatching  up  a 
knife,  ran  up  stairs  to  revenge  herself  after  her  national 
fashion.  The  porter's  little  daughter  followed  her$ 


FLORENCE.  323 

and,  running  into  Madame  Ossoli's  rooms,  besought 
her  interference.  Madame  Ossoli  reached  the  apartment 
of  the  Jewess,  just  in  time  to  interpose  between  that 
beetle-browed  lady  and  her  infuriated  assailant.  Those 
who  know  the  insane  license  of  spirit  which  distin- 
guishes the  Roman  mountaineers,  will  understand  that 
this  was  a  position  of  no  slight  hazard.  The  Jewess 
aggravated  the  danger  of  the  offence  by  the  obstinate 
maliciousness  of  her  aspect  and  words.  Such,  however, 
was  Madame  Ossoli's  entire  self-possession  and  forbear- 
ance, that  she  was  able  to  hold  her  ground,  and  to 
remonstrate  with  this  difficult  pair  of  antagonists  so 
effectually,  as  to  bring  the  maid  to  penitent  tears,  and 
the  Jewess  to  a  confession  of  her  injustice,  and  a 
promise  of  future  good  behavior. 

The  porter  of  the  house,  who  lived  in  a  dark  cavern- 
ous hole  on  the  first  floor,  was  slowly  dying  of  a  con- 
sumption, the  sufferings  of  which  were  imbittered  by 
the  chill  dampness  of  his  abode.  His  hollow  voice  and 
hacking  cough,  however,  could  not  veil  the  grateful 
accent  with  which  he  uttered  any  allusion  to  Madame 
Ossoli.  He  was  so  close  a  prisoner  to  his  narrow, 
windowless  chamber,  that  when  I  inquired  for  Madame 
Ossoli  he  was  often  obliged  to  call  his  little  daughter, 
before  he  could  tell  me  whether  Madame  was  at  home, 
or  not ;  and  he  always  tempered  the  official  uniformity 
of  the  question  with  some  word  of  tenderness.  Indeed, 
he  rarely  pronounced  her  name;  sufficiently  indicating  to 
the  child  whom  it  was  that  I  was  seeking,  by  the  affection- 
ate epithet  he  used,  '^Lita!  e  la  cara  Signora  in  casa?" 

The  composure  and  force  of  Madame  Ossoli's  charac- 
ter would,  indeed,  have  given  her  a  strong  influence  for 
good  over  any  person  with  whom  she  was  brought  into 


324  EUROPE. 

contact ;  but  this  influence  must  have  been  even  extraor- 
dinary over  the  impulsive  and  ill-disciplined  children 
of  passion  and  of  sorrow,  among  whom  she  was  thrown 
in  Italy. 

Her  husband  related  to  me  once,  with  a  most  rev- 
erent enthusiasm,  some  stories  of  the  good  she  had  done 
in  Rieti,  during  her  residence  there.  The  Spanish  troops 
were  quartered  in  that  town,  and  the  dissipated  habits 
of  the  officers,  as  well  as  the  excesses  of  the  soldiery, 
kept  the  place  in  a  constant  irritation.  Though  over- 
whelmed with  cares  and  anxieties.  Madame  Ossoli  found 
time  and  collectedness  of  mind  enough  to  interest  her- 
self in  the  distresses  of  the  towns-people,  and  to  pour 
the  soothing  oil  of  a  wise  sympathy  upon  their  wounded 
and  indignant  feelings.  On  one  occasion,  as  the  Mar- 
chese  told  me,  she  undoubtedly  saved  the  lives  of  a 
family  in  Rieti,  by  inducing  them  to  pass  over  in  silence 
an  insult  offered  to  one  of  them  by  an  intoxicated  Span- 
ish soldier,  —  and,  on  another,  she  interfered  between 
two  brothers,  maddened  by  passion,  and  threatening  to 
stain  the  family  hearth  with  the  guilt  of  fratricide.* 

*  The  circumstances  of  this  story,  perhaps,  deserve  to  be  recorded. 
The  brothers  were  two  young  men,  the  sons  and  the  chief  supports  of 
Madame  Ossoli's  landlord  at  Rieti.  They  were  both  married,  —  the 
younger  one  to  a  beautiful  girl,  who  had  brought  him  no  dowry,  and 
who,  in  the  opinion  of  her  husband's  family,  had  not  shown  a  proper 
disposition  to  bear  her  share  of  the  domestic  burdens  and  duties.  The 
bickerings  and  disputes  which  resulted  from  this  state  of  affairs,  on  one 
unlucky  day,  took  the  form  of  an  open  and  -violent  quarrel.  The  younger 
son,  who  was  absent  from  home  when  the  conflict  began,  returned  to  find 
it  at  its  height,  and  was  received  by  his  wife  with  passionate  tears, 
and  by  his  relations  with  sharp  recriminations.  His  brother,  especially, 
took  it  upon  himself  to  upbraid  him,  in  the  name  of  all  his  family,  for 
bringing  into  their  home-circle  such  a  firebrand  of  discord.  Charges  and 
counter  charges  followed  in  rapid  succession,  and  hasty  words  soon  led  to 


FLORENCE.  325 

Such  incidents,  and  the  calm  tenor  of  Madame  Os- 
soli's  confident  hopes. — the  assured  faith  and  unshaken 
bravery,  with  which  she  met  and  turned  aside  the  com- 
plicated troubles,  rising  sometimes  into  absolute  perils, 
of  their  last  year  in  Italy,  —  seemed  to  have  inspired 
her  husband  with  a  feeling  of  respect  for  her,  amounting 
to  reverence.  This  feeling,  modifying  the  manifest  ten- 
derness with  which  he  hung  upon  her  every  word  and 
look,  and  sought  to  anticipate  her  simplest  wishes,  was 
luminously  visible  in  the  air  and  manner  of  his  aifection- 
ate  devotion  to  her. 

The  frank  and  simple  recognition  of  his  wife's  sin- 
gular nobleness,  which  he  always  displayed,  was  the  best 
evidence  that  his  own  nature  was  of  a  fine  and  noble 
strain.  And  those  who  knew  him  best,  are,  I  believe, 
unanimous  in  testifying  that  his  character  did  in  no 
respect  belie  the  evidence  borne  by  his  manly  and  truth- 
ful countenance,  to  its  warmth  and  its  sincerity.  He 

blows.  From  blows  the  appeal  to  the  knife  was  swiftly  made,  and  when 
Madame  Ossoli,  attracted  by  the  unusual  clamor,  entered  upon  the 
scene  of  action,  she  found  that  blood  had  been  already  drawn,  and  that 
the  younger  brother  was  only  restrained  from  following  up  the  first  assault 
by  the  united  force  of  all  the  females,  who  hung  about  him,  while  the 
older  brother,  grasping  a  heavy  billet  of  wood,  and  pale  with  rage,  stood 
awaiting  his  antagonist.  Passing  through  the  group  of  weeping  and 
terrified  women,  Madame  Ossoli  made  her  way  up  to  the  younger  brother 
and,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  asked  him  to  put  down  his  weapon 
and  listen  to  her.  It  was  iii  vain  that  he  attempted  to  ignore  her  pres- 
ence. Before  the  spell  of  her  calm,  firm,  well-known  voice,  his  fury 
melted  away.  She  spoke  to  him  again,  and  besought  him  to  show  him- 
self a  man,  and  to  master  his  foolish  and  wicked  rage.  With  a  sudden 
impulse,  he  flung  his  knife  upon  the  ground,  turned  to  Madame  Ossoli, 
clasped  and  kissed  her  hand,  and  then  running  towards  his  brother,  the 
two  met  in  a  fraternal  embrace,  which  brought  the  threatened  tragedy  to 
a  joyful  termination. 

VOL.    IT.  28 


326  EUROPE. 

seemed  quite  absorbed  in  his  wife  and  child.  I  cannot 
remember  ever  to  have  found  Madame  Ossoli  alone,  on 
those  evenings  when  she  remained  at  home.  Her  hus- 
band was  always  with  her.  The  picture  of  their  room 
rises  clearly  on  my  memory.  A  small  square  room, 
sparingly,  yet  sufficiently  furnished,  with  polished  floor 
and  frescoed  ceiling,  —  and,  drawn  up  closely  before  the 
cheerful  fire,  an  oval  table,  on  which  stood  a  monkish 
lamp  of  brass,  with  depending  chains  that  support  quaint 
classic  cups  for  the  olive  oil.  There,  seated  beside  his 
wife,  I  was  sure  to  find  the  Marchese,  reading  from 
some  patriotic  book,  and  dressed  in  the  dark  brown, 
red-corded*  coat  of  the  Guardia  Civica,  which  it  was 
his  melancholy  pleasure  to  wear  at  home.  So  long 
as  the  conversation  could  be  carried  on  in  Italian,  he 
used  to  remain,  though  he  rarely  joined  in  it  to  any 
considerable  degree;  but  if  a  number  of  English  and 
American  visitors  came  in,  he  used  to  take  his  leave  and 
go  to  the  Cafe  d'ltalia,  being  very  unwilling,  as  Mad- 
ame Ossoli  told  me,  to  impose  any  seeming  restraint,  by 
his  presence,  upon  her  friends,  with  whom  he  was  una- 
ble to  converse.  For  the  same  reason,  he  rarely  remained 
with  her  at  the  houses  of  her  English  or  American 
friends,  though  he  always  accompanied  her  thither,  and 
returned  to  escort  her  home. 

I  conversed  with  him  so  little  that  1  can  hardly  ven- 
ture to  make  any  remarks  on  the  impression  which  I 
received  from  his  conversation,  with  regard  to  the  char- 
acter of  his  mind.  Notwithstanding  his  general  reserve 
and  curtness  of  speech,  on  two  or  three  occasions  he 
showed  himself  to  possess  quite  a  quick  and  vivid  fancy, 
and  even  a  certain  share  of  humor.  I  have  heard  him 
tell  stories  remarkably  well.  One  tale,  especially,  which 


FLORENCE.  327 

related  to  a  dream  he  had  in  early  life,  about  a  treasure 
concealed  in  his  father's  house,  which  was  thrice  repeated, 
and  made  so  strong  an  impression  on  his  mind  as  to 
induce  him  to  batter  a  certain  panel  in  the  library  almost 
to  pieces,  in  vain,  but  which  received  something  like  a 
confirmation  from  the  fact,  that  a  Roman  attorney,  who 
rented  that  and  other  rooms  from  the  family,  after  his 
father's  death,  grew  suddenly  and  unaccountably  rich, 
—  I  remember  as  being  told  with  great  felicity  and 
vivacity  of  expression. 

His  recollections  of  the  trouble  and  the  dangers  through 
which  he  had  passed  with  his  wife  seemed  to  be  overpow- 
epingly  painful.  On  one  occasion,  he  began  to  tell  me  a 
story  of  their  stay  in  the  mountains  :  He  had  gone  out  to 
walk,  and  had  unconsciously  crossed  the  Neapolitan  fron- 
tier. Suddenly  meeting  with  a  party  of  the  Neapolitan 
gendarmerie,  he  was  called  to  account  for  his  trespass,  and 
being  unable  to  produce  any  papers  testifying  to  his 
loyalty,  or  the  legality  of  his  existence,  he  was  carried 
off,  despite  his  protestations,  and  lodged  for  the  night  in 
a  miserable  guard-house,  whence  he  was  taken,  next 
morning,  to  the  head-quarters  of  the  officer  commanding 
in  the  neighborhood.  Here,  matters  might  have  gone 
badly  with  him,  but  for  the  accident  that  he  had  upon 
his  person  a  business  letter  directed  to  himself  as  the 
Marchese  Ossoli.  A  certain  abbe,  the  regimental  chap- 
lain, having  once  spent  some  time  in  Rome,  recognized 
the  name  as  that  of  an  officer  in  the  Pope's  Guardia 
Nobile,*  whereupon,  the  Neapolitan  officers  not  only 
ordered  him  to  be  released,  but  sent  him  back,  with 

*  It  will  be  understood,  that  this  officer  was  the  Marchese's  older 
brother,  who  still  adheres  to  the  Papal  cause. 


328  EUROPE. 

many  apologies,  in  a  carriage,  and  under  an  armed  escort, 
to  the  Roman  territory.  When  he  reached  this  part  of 
his  story,  and  came  to  his  meeting  with  Madame  Ossoli, 
the  remembrance  of  her  terrible  distress  during  the  period 
of  his  detention  so  overcame  him,  that  he  was  quite 
unable  to  go  on. 

Towards  their  child  he  manifested  an  overflowing 
tenderness,  and  most  aifectionate  care. 

Notwithstanding  the  intense  contempt  and  hatred 
which  Signore  Ossoli,  in  common  with  all  the  Ital- 
ian liberals,  cherished  towards  the  ecclesiastical  body, 
he  seemed  to  be  a  very  devout  Catholic.  He  used  to 
attend  regularly  the  vesper  service,  in  some  of  the  older 
and  quieter  churches  of  Florence;  and,  though  I  pre- 
sume Madame  Ossoli  never  accepted  in  any  degree  the 
Roman  Catholic  forms  of  faith,  she  frequently  accom- 
panied him  on  these  occasions.  And  I  know  that  she 
enjoyed  the  devotional  influences  of  the  church  ritual, 
as  performed  in  the  cathedral,  and  at  Santa  Croce,  espe- 
cially during  the  Easter-week. 

Though  condemned  by  her  somewhat  uncertain  posi- 
tion at  Florence,*  as  well  as  by  the  state  of  things  in 
Tuscany  at  that  time,  to  a  comparative  inaction,  Madame 
Ossoli  never  seemed  to  lose  in  the  least  the  warmth  of 
her  interest  in  the  affairs  of  Italy,  nor  did  she  bate  one 
jot  of  heart  or  hope  for  the  future  of  that  country.  She 
was  much  depressed,  however,  I  think,  by  the  apparent 
apathy  and  prostration  of  the  Liberals  in  Tuscany ;  and 
the  presence  of  the  Austrian  troops  in  Florence  was  as 
painful  and  annoying  to  her,  as  it  could  have  been  to 
any  Florentine  patriot.  When  it  was  understood  that. 

*  She  believed  herself  to  be,  and  I  suppose  really  was,  under  the 
surveillance  of  the  police  during  her  residence  in  Florence. 


FLORENCE.  329 

Prince  Lichtenstein  had  requested  the  Grand  Duke  to 
order  a  general  illumination  in  honor  of  the  anniversary 
of  the  battle  of  Novara,  Madame  Ossoli,  I  recollect,  was 
more  moved,  than  I  remember  on  any  other  occasion  to 
have  seen  her.  And  she  used  to  speak  very  regretfully 
of  the  change  which  had  come  over  the  spirit  of  Flor 
ence,  since  her  former  residence  there.  Then  all  was 
gayety  and  hope.  Bodies  of  artisans,  gathering  recruits 
as  they  passed  along,  used  to  form  themselves  into 
choral  bands,  as  they  returned  from  their  work  at  the 
close  of  the  day,  and  rilled  the  air  with  the  chants  of 
liberty.  Now,  all  was  a  sombre  and  desolate  silence. 

Her  own  various  cares  so  occupied  Madame  Ossoli 
that  she  seemed  to  be  very  much  withdrawn  from  the 
world  of  art.  During  the  whole  time  of  my  stay  in 
Florence,  I  do  not  think  she  once  visited  either  of  the 
Grand  Ducal  Galleries,  and  the  only  studio  in  which  she 
seemed  to  feel  any  very  strong  interest,  was  that  of 
Mademoiselle  Favand,  a  lady  whose  independence  of 
character,  self-reliance,  and  courageous  genius,  could 
hardly  have  failed  to  attract  her  congenial  sympathies. 

But  among  all  my  remembrances  of  Madame  Ossoli, 
there  are  none  more  beautiful  or  more  enduring  than 
those  which  recall  to  me  another  person,  a  young  stran- 
ger, alone  and  in  feeble  health,  who  found,  in  her  society, 
her  sympathy,  and  her  counsels,  a  constant  atmosphere 
of  comfort  and  of  peace.  Every  morning,  wild-flowers, 
freshly  gathered,  were  laid  upon  her  table  by  the  grate- 
ful hands  of  this  young  man ;  every  evening,  beside  her 
seat  in  her  little  room,  his  mild,  pure  face  was  to  be  seen, 
bright  with  a  quiet  happiness,  that  must  have  bound  his 
heart  by  no  weak  ties  to  her  with  whose  fate  his  own 
was  so  closely  to  be  linked. 

VOL.  ii.  28* 


330  EUROPE. 

And  the  recollection  of  such  benign  and  holy  influ- 
ences breathed  upon  the  human  hearts  of  those  who 
came  within  her  sphere,  will  not,  I  trust,  be  valueless  to 
those  friends,  in  whose  love  her  memory  is  enshrined  with 
more  immortal  honors  than  the  world  can  give  or  take 
away. 


HOMEWARD. 


Last,  having  thus  revealed  all  I  could  love, 

And  having  received  all  love  bestowed  on  it, 

I  would  die  :  so  preserving  through  my  course 

God  full  on  me,  as  I  was  full  on  men  : 

And  He  would  grant  my  prayer — "  I  have  gone  through 

All  loveliness  of  life  ;  make  more  for  me, 

If  not  for  men,  —  or  take  me  to  Thyself, 

Eternal,  Infinite  Love  !  " 

BROWNING. 

Till  another  open  for  me 
In  God's  Eden-land  unknown, 
With  an  angel  at  the  doorway, 
White  with  gazing  at  His  Throne  ; 

And  a  saint's  voice  in  the  palm-trees,  singing, — "ALL  is  LOST,  and  won.' 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT. 


La  ne  venimmo  :  e  lo  scaglion  primaio 
Bianco  marmo  era  si  pulito  e  terso, 
Ch  'io  mi  specchiava  in  esso,  qual  io  paio. 

Era  '1  secondo  tinto,  piu  che  perso, 
D'una  petrina  ruvida  ed  arsiccia, 
Crepata  per  lo  lungo  e  per  traverso. 

Lo  terzo,  che  di  sopra  s'ammassiccia, 
Porfido  mi  parea  si  fiammegiante, 
Come  sangue  che  fuor  di  vena  spiccia. 

Sopra  questa  teneva  ambo  le  piante 

L'  angel  di  Dio,  sedendo  in  su  la  soglia, 
Che  mi  sembiava  pietra  di  diamante. 

Per  li  tre  gradi  su  di  buona  voglia 
Mi  trasse  '1  duca  mio,  dicendo,  chiedi 
Umilmente  che  '1  serrame  scioglia. 

DAOTB 

Che  luce  e  questa,  e  qual  nuova  beltate  ? 
Dicean  tra  lor  ;  perch'  abito  si  adorno 
Dal  mondo  errante  a  quest  'alto  soggiorno 
Non  sali  mai  in  tutta  questa  etate. 

Ella  contenta  aver  cangiato  albergo, 
Si  paragona  pur  coi  pixi  perfetti. 

PETRARCA. 


IX. 

HOMEWARD. 


SPRING-TIME. 

SPRING,  bright  prophet  of  God's  eternal  youth,  herald 
forever  eloquent  of  heaven's  undying  joy,  has  once  more 
wrought  its  miracle  of  resurrection  on  the  vineyards  and 
olive-groves  of  Tuscany,  and  touched  with  gently- 
wakening  fingers  the  myrtle  and  the  orange  in  the 
gardens  of  Florence.  The  Apennines  have  put  aside 
their  snowy  winding-sheet,  and  their  untroubled  faces 
salute  with  rosy  gleams  of  promise  the  new  day,  while 
flowers  smile  upward  to  the  serene  sky  amid  the  grass 
and  grain  fields,  and  fruit  is  swelling  beneath  the  blos- 
soms along  the  plains  of  Arno.  "The  Italian  spring," 
writes  Margaret,  "is  as  good  as  Paradise.  Days  come 
of  glorious  sunshine  and  gently-flowing  airs,  that  expand 
the  heart  and  uplift  the  whole  nature.  The  birds  are 
twittering  their  first  notes  of  love;  the  ground  is  enam- 
elled with  anemones,  cowslips,  and  crocuses;  every 
old  wall  and  ruin  puts  on  its  festoon  and  garland ;  and 
the  heavens  stoop  daily  nearer,  till  the  earth  is  folded  in 
an  embrace  of  light,  and  her  every  pulse  beats  music." 


334 


HOMEWARD. 


"  This  world  is  indeed  a  sad  place,  despite  its  sunshine, 
birds,  and  crocuses.  But  I  never  felt  as  happy  as  now, 
when  I  always  find  the  glad  eyes  of  my  little  boy  to  wel- 
come me.  I  feel  the  tie  between  him  and  me  so  real  and 
deep-rooted,  that  even  death  shall  not  part  us.  So  sweet 
is  this  unimpassioned  love;  it  knows  no  dark  reactions,  it 
does  not  idealize,  and  cannot  be  daunted  by  the  faults 
of  its  object.  Nothing  but  a  child  can  take  the  worst 
bitterness  out  of  life,  and  break  the  spell  of  loneliness. 
I  shall  not  be  alone  in  other  worlds,  whenever  Eternity 
may  call  me." 

And  now  her  face  is  turned  homeward.  "  I  am  home- 
sick," she  had  written  years  before,  "  but  where  is  that 
HOME?" 

OMENS. 

"  My  heart  is  very  tired,  —  my  strength  is  low,  — 
My  hands  are  full  of  blossoms  plucked  before, 
Held  dead  within  them  till  myself  shall  die." 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT. 

Many  motives  drew  Margaret  to  her  native  land : 
heart- weariness  at  the  reaction  in  Europe;  desire  of 
publishing  to  best  advantage  the  book  whereby  she  hoped 
at  once  to  do  justice  to  great  principles  and  brave  men, 
and  to  earn  bread  for  her  dear  ones  and  herself;  and, 
above  all,  yearning  to  be  again  among  her  family  and 
earliest  associates.  "I  go  back,"  she  writes,  "prepared 
for  difficulties ;  but  it  will  be  a  consolation  to  be  with  my 
mother,  brothers,  sister,  and  old  friends,  and  I  find  it 
imperatively  necessary  to  be  in  the  United  States,  for  a 
while  at  least,  to  make  such  arrangements  with  the 
printers  as  may  free  me  from  immediate  care.  I  did 


OMENS.  335 

think,  at  one  time,  of  coming  alone  with  Angelino,  and 
then  writing  for  Ossoli  to  come  later,  or  returning  to 
Italy;  knowing  that  it  will  be  painful  for  him  to  go,  and 
that  there  he  must  have  many  lonely  hours.  But  he  is 
separated  from  his  old  employments  and  natural  compan- 
ions, while  no  career  is  open  for  him  at  present.  Then, 
I  would  not  take  his  child  away  for  several  months;  for 
his  heart  is  fixed  upon  him  as  fervently  as  mine.  And, 
again,  it  would  not  only  be  very  strange  and  sad  to  be  so 
long  without  his  love  and  care,  but  I  should  be  contin- 
ually solicitous  about  his  welfare.  Ossoli,  indeed,  cannot 
but  feel  solitary  at  first,  and  I  am  much  more  anxious 
about  his  happiness  than  my  own.  Still,  he  will  have 
our  boy,  and  the  love  of  my  family,  especially  of  my 
mother,  to  cheer  him,  and  quiet  communings  with  nature 
give  him  pleasure  so  simple  and  profound,  that  I  hope 
he  will  make  a  new  life  for  himself,  in  our  unknown 
country,  till  changes  favor  our  return  to  his  own.  I 
trust,  that  we  shall  find  the  means  to  come  together, 
and  to  remain  together." 

Considerations  of  economy  determined  them,  spite  of 
many  misgivings,  to  take  passage  in  a  merchantman 
from  Leghorn.  "I  am  suffering,"  she  writes,  "as  never 
before,  from  the  horrors  of  indecision.  Happy  the  fowls 
of  the  air,  who  do  not  have  to  think  so  much  about  their 
arrangements  !  The  barque  Elizabeth  will  take  us,  and 
is  said  to  be  an  uncommonly  good  vessel,  nearly  new, 
and  well  kept.  We  may  be  two  months  at  sea,  but  to 
go  by  way  of  France  would  more  than  double  the 
expense.  Yet,  now  that  I  am  on  the  point  of  deciding 
to  come  in  her,  people  daily  dissuade  me,  saying  that  I 
have  no  conception  of  what  a  voyage  of  sixty  or  seventy 
days  will  be  in  point  of  fatigue  and  suffering ;  that  the 


336  HOMEWARD. 

insecurity,  compared  with  packet-ships  or  steamers,  is 
great;  that  the  cabin,  being  on  deck,  will  be  terribly 
exposed,  in  case  of  a  gale,  &c.,  &c.  I  am  well  aware  of 
the  proneness  of  volunteer  counsellors  to  frighten  and 
excite  one,  and  have  generally  disregarded  them.  But 
this  time  I  feel  a  trembling  solicitude  on  account  of  my 
child,  and  am  doubtful,  harassed,  almost  ill."  And 
again,  under  date  of  April  21,  she  says :  "  I  had  intended, 
if  I  went  by  way  of  France,  to  take  the  packet-ship 

lArgoJ  from  Havre ;  and  I  had  requested  Mrs. •  to 

procure  and  forward  to  me  some  of  my  effects  left  at 

Paris,  in  charge  of  Miss  F ,  when,  taking  up  Galig- 

nani,  my  eye  fell  on  these  words :  '  Died,  4th  of  April, 

Miss  F ; '  and,  turning  the  page,  I  read,  '  The  wreck 

of  the  Argo'  —  a  somewhat  singular  combination! 
There  were  notices,  also,  of  the  loss  of  the  fine  English 
steamer  Adelaide,  and  of  the  American  packet  John 
Skiddy.  Safety  is  not  to  be  secured,  then,  by  the  wisest 
foresight.  I  shall  embark  more  composedly  in  our 
merchant-ship,  praying  fervently,  indeed,  that  it  may 
not  be  my  lot  to  lose  my  boy  at  sea,  either  by  unsolaced 
illness,  or  amid  the  howling  waves ;  or,  if  so,  that  Ossoli, 
Angelo,  and  I  may  go  together,  and  that  the  anguish 
may  be  brief." 

Their  state-rooms  were  taken,  their  trunks  packed, 
their  preparations  finished,  they  were  just  leaving  Flor- 
ence, when  letters  came,  which,  had  they  reached  her  a 
week  earlier,  would  probably  have  induced  them  to 
remain  in  Italy.  But  Margaret  had  already  by  letter 
appointed  a  rendezvous  for  the  scattered  members  of  her 
family  in  July;  and  she  would  not  break  her  engage- 
ments with  the  commander  of  the  barque.  It  was  des- 
tined that  they  were  to  sail,  —  to  sail  in  the  Elizabeth,  to 


OMENS.  337 

sail  then.  And,  even  in  the  hour  of  parting,  clouds, 
whose  tops  were  golden  in  the  sunshine,  whose  base  was 
gloomy  on  the  waters,  beckoned  them  onward.  "  Beware 
of  the  sea,"  had  been  a  singular  prophecy,  given  to  Os- 
soli  when  a  boy,  by  a  fortune-teller,  and  this  was  the 
first  ship  he  had  ever  set  his  foot  on.  More  than  ordi- 
nary apprehensions  of  risk,  too,  hovered  before  Margaret. 
"  I  am  absurdly  fearful,"  she  writes,  "  and  various  omens 
have  combined  to  give  me  a  dark  feeling.  I  am  become 
indeed  a  miserable  coward,  for  the  sake  of  Angelino.  I 
fear  heat  and  cold,  fear  the  voyage,  fear  biting  poverty. 
I  hope  I  shall  not  be  forced  to  be  as  brave  for  him,  as  I 
have  been  for  myself,  and  that,  if  I  succeed  to  rear  him, 
he  will  be  neither  a  weak  nor  a  bad  man.  But  I  love 
him  too  much !  In  case  of  mishap,  however,  I  shall 
perish  with  my  husband  and  my  child,  and  we  may  be 
transferred  to  some  happier  state."  And  again  :  "  I  feel 
perfectly  willing  to  stay  my  threescore  years  and  ten,  if 
it  be  thought  I  need  so  much  tuition  from  this  planet ; 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  my  future  upon  earth  will  soon 
close.  It  may  be  terribly  trying,  but  it  will  not  be  so 
very  long,  now.  God  will  transplant  the  root,  if  he  wills 
to  rear  it  into  fruit-bearing."  And,  finally:  "I  have  a 
vague  expectation  of  some  crisis,  —  I  know  not  what. 
But  it  has  long  seemed,  that,  in  the  year  1850,  I  should 
stand  on  a  plateau  in  the  ascent  of  life,  where  I  should 
be  allowed  to  pause  for  a  while,  and  take  more  clear  and 
commanding  views  than  ever  before.  Yet  my  life  pro- 
ceeds as  regularly  as  the  fates  of  a  Greek  tragedy,  and  I 
can  but  accept  the  pages  as  they  turn."  *  * 

These  were  her  parting  words :  — 

"Florence,  May  14,  1850.  — I  will  believe,  I  shall  be 
VOL.  ii.  29 


338  HOMEWARD. 

welcome  with  my  treasures,  —  my  husband  and  child. 
For  me,  I  long  so  much  to  see  you !  Should  anything 
hinder  our  meeting  upon  earth,  think  of  your  daughter, 
as  one  who  always  wished,  at  least,  to  do  her  duty,  and 
who  always  cherished  you,  according  as  her  mind  opened 
to  discover  excellence. 

"Give  dear  love,  too,  to  my  brothers;  and  first  to  my 
eldest,  faithful  friend  !  Eugene ;  a  sister's  love  to  Ellen ; 
love  to  my  kind  and  good  aunts,  and  to  my  dear  cousir. 
E.,  —  God  bless  them ! 

"  I  hope  we  shall  be  able  to  pass  some  time  together 
yet,  in  this  world.  But,  if  God  decrees  otherwise,  — 
here  and  HEREAFTER,  —  my  dearest  mother, 

"Your  loving  child,  MARGARET." 

THE   VOYAGE.* 

The  seventeenth  of  May,  the  day  of  sailing,  came,  and 
the  Elizabeth  lay  waiting  for  her  company.  Yet,  even 
then,  dark  presentiments  so  overshadowed  Margaret,  that 
she  passed  one  anxious  hour  more  in  hesitation,  before 
she  could  resolve  to  go  on  board.  But  Captain  Hasty 
was  so  fine  a  model  of  the  New  England  seaman,  strong- 
minded,  prompt,  calm,  decided,  courteous;  Mrs.  Hasty 
was  so  refined,  gentle,  and  hospitable;  both  had  already 
formed  so  warm  an  attachment  for  the  little  family,  in 
their  few  interviews  at  Florence  and  Leghorn;  Celeste 
Paolini,  a  young  Italian  girl,  who  had  engaged  to  render 
kindly  services  to  Angelino,  was  so  lady-like  and  pleas- 
ing; their  only  other  fellow-passenger,  Mr.  Horace  Sum- 

*  The  following  account  is  as  accurate,  even  in  minute  details,  as  con- 
versation with  several  of  the  survivors  enabled  me  to  make  it. — vr.  H.  c. 


THE   VOYAGE.  339 

ner,  of  Boston,  was  so  obliging  and  agreeable  a  friend; 
and  the  good  ship  herself  looked  so  trim,  substantial,  and 
cheery,  that  it  seemed  weak  and  wrong  to  turn  back. 
They  embarked ;  and,  for  the  first  few  days,  all  went 
prosperously,  till  fear  was  forgotten.  Soft  breezes  sweep 
them  tranquilly  over  the  smooth  bosom  of  the  Mediterra- 
nean ;  Angelino  sits  among  his  heaps  of  toys,  or  listens 
to  the  seraphine,  or  leans  his  head  with  fondling  hands 
upon  the  white  goat,  who  is  now  to  be  his  foster-parent, 
or  in  the  captain's  arms  moves  to  and  fro,  gazing  curi- 
ously at  spars  and  rigging,  or  watches  with  delight  the 
swelling  canvass;  while,  under  the  constant  stars,  above 
the  unresting  sea,  Margaret  and  Ossoli  pace  the  deck  of 
their  small  ocean-home,  and  think  of  storms  left  behind, 
—  perhaps  of  coming  tempests. 

But  now  Captain  Hasty  fell  ill  with  fever,  could 
hardly  drag  himself  from  his  state-room  to  give  necessary 
orders,  and  lay  upon  the  bed  or  sofa,  in  fast-increased 
distress,  though  glad  to  bid  Nino  good-day,  to  kiss  his 
cheek,  and  pat  his  hand.  Still,  the  strong  man  grew 
weaker,  till  he  could  no  longer  draw  from  beneath  the 
pillow  his  daily  friend,  the  Bible,  though  his  mind  was 
yet  clear  to  follow  his  wife's  voice,  as  she  read  aloud  the 
morning  and  evening  chapter.  But  alas  for  the  brave, 
stout  seaman !  alas  for  the  young  wife,  on  almost  her 
first  voyage  !  alas  for  crew !  alas  for  company  !  alas  for 
the  friends  of  Margaret !  The  fever  proved  to  be  con- 
fluent small-pox,  in  the  most  malignant  form.  The  good 
commander  had  received  his  release  from  earthly  duty. 
The  Elizabeth  must  lose  her  guardian.  With  calm  con- 
fidence, he  met  his  fate,  and,  at  eight  o'clock  on  Sunday 
morning,  June  3d,  he  breathed  his  last.  At  midnight, 
the  Elizabeth  had  anchored  off  Gibraltar;  but  the 


340  HOMEWARD. 

authorities  refused  permission  for  any  one  to  land,  and 
directed  that  the  burial  should  be  made  at  sea.  As  the 
news  spread  through  the  port,  the  ships  dropped  their 
flags  half-mast,  and  at  sunset,  towed  by  the  boat  of  a 
neighboring  frigate,  the  crew  of  the  Elizabeth  bore  the 
body  of  their  late  chief,  wrapped  in  the  flag  of  his  nation, 
to  its  rest  in  deep  water.  Golden  twilight  flooded  the 
western  sky,  and  shadows  of  high-piled  clouds  lay  pur- 
ple on  the  broad  Atlantic.  In  that  calm,  summer  sunset 
funeral,  what  eye  foresaw  the  morning  of  horror,  of 
which  it  was  the  sad  forerunner? 

At  Gibraltar,  they  were  detained  a  week  by  adverse 
winds,  but,  on  the  9th  of  June,  set  sail  again.  The  second 
day  after,  Angelino  sickened  with  the  dreadful  malady, 
and  soon  became  so  ill,  that  his  life  was  despaired  of. 
His  eyes  were  closed,  his  head  and  face  swollen  out  of 
shape,  his  body  covered  with  eruption.  Though  inex- 
perienced in  the  disease,  the  parents  wisely  treated  their 
boy  with  cooling  drinks,  and  wet  applications  to  the  skin ; 
under  their  incessant  care,  the  fever  abated,  and,  to  their 
unspeakable  joy,  he  rapidly  recovered.  Sobered  and 
saddened,  they  could  again  hope,  and  enjoy  the  beauty 
of  the  calm  sky  and  sea.  Once  more  Nino  laughs,  as 
he  splashes  in  his  morning  bath,  and  playfully  prolongs 
the  meal,  which  the  careful  father  has  prepared  with  his 
own  hand,  or,  if  he  has  been  angered,  rests  his  head  upon 
his  mother's  breast,  while  his  palm  is  pressed  against  her 
cheek,  as,  bending  down,  she  sings  to  him ;  once  more,  he 
sits  among  his  toys,  or  fondles  and  plays  with  the  white- 
haired  goat,  or  walks  up  and  down  in  the  arms  of  the 
steward,  who  has  a  boy  of  just  his  age,  at  home,  now 
waiting  to  embrace  him ;  or  among  the  sailors,  with  whom 
he  is  a  universal  favorite,  prattles  in  baby  dialect  as  he 


THE    WRECK.  341 

tries  to  imitate  their  cry,  to  work  the  pumps,  and  pull 
the  ropes.  Ossoli  and  Sumner,  meanwhile,  exchange 
alternate  lessons  in  Italian  and  English.  And  Margaret, 
among  her  papers,  gives  the  last  touches  to  her  book  on 
Italy,  or  with  words  of  hope  and  love  comforts  like  a 
mother  the  heart-broken  widow.  Slowly,  yet  peacefully, 
pass  the  long  summer  days,  the  mellow  moonlit  nights ; 
slowly,  and  with  even  flight,  the  good  Elizabeth,  under 
gentle  airs  from  the  tropics,  bears  them  safely  onward. 
Four  thousand  miles  of  ocean  lie  behind ;  they  are  nearly 
home. 


THE    WRECK. 

"  There  are  blind  ways  provided,  the  foredone 
Heart-weary  player  in  this  pageant  world 
Drops  out  by,  letting  the  main  masque  defile 
By  the  conspicuous  portal :  —  I  am  through, 
Just  through."  BROWNING. 

On  Thursday,  July  15th,  at  noon,  the  Elizabeth  was 
off  the  Jersey  coast,  somewhere  between  Cape  May  and 
Barnegat;  and,  as  the  weather  was  thick,  with  a  fresh 
breeze  blowing  from  the  east  of  south,  the  officer  in 
command,  desirous  to  secure  a  good  offing,  stood  east- 
north-east.  His  purpose  was,  when  daylight  showed 
the  highlands  of  Neversink,  to  take  a  pilot,  arid  run 
before  the  wind  past  Sandy  Hook.  So  confident,  indeed, 
was  he  of  safety,  that  he  promised  his  passengers  to  land 
them  early  in  the  morning  at  New  York.  With  this 
hope,  their  trunks  were  packed,  the  preparations  made 
to  greet  their  friends,  the  last  good-night  was  spoken, 
and  with  grateful  hearts  Margaret  and  Ossoli  put  Nino 

VOL.  n.  29* 


342  HOMEWARD. 

to  rest,  for  the  last  time,  as  they  thought,  on  ship-board, 
—  for  the  last  time,  as  it  was  to  be,  on  earth  ! 

By  nine  o'clock,  the  breeze  rose  to  a  gale,  which  every 
hour  increased  in  violence,  till  at  midnight  it  became  a 
hurricane.  Yet,  as  the  Elizabeth  was  new  and  strong, 
and  as  the  commander,  trusting  to  an  occasional  cast  of 
the  lead,  assured  them  that  they  were  not  nearing  the 
Jersey  coast,  —  which  alone  he  dreaded,  —  the  passengers 
remained  in  their  state-rooms,  and  caught  such  uneasy 
sleep  as  the  howling  storm  and  tossing  ship  permitted. 
Utterly  unconscious,  they  were,  even  then,  amidst  perils, 
whence  only  by  promptest  energy  was  it  possible  to 
escape.  Though  under  close-reefed  sails,  their  vessel 
was  making  way  far  more  swiftly  than  any  one  on  board 
had  dreamed  of;  and  for  hours,  with  the  combined  force 
of  currents  and  the  tempest,  had  been  driving  headlong 
towards  the  sand-bars  of  Long  Island.  About  four 
o'clock,  on  Friday  morning,  July  16th,  she  struck,  —  first 
draggingly,  then  hard  and  harder, — on  Fire  Island  beach. 

The  main  and  mizzen  masts  were  at  once  cut  away ; 
but  the  heavy  marble  in  her  hold  had  broken  through 
her  bottom,  and  she  bilged.  Her  bow  held  fast,  her 
stern  swung  round,  she  careened  inland,  her  broadside 
was  bared  to  the  shock  of  the  billows,  and  the  waves 
made  a  clear  breach  over  her  with  every  swell.  The 
doom  of  the  poor  Elizabeth  was  sealed  now,  and  no 
human  power  could  save  her.  She  lay  at  the  mercy  of 
the  maddened  ocean. 

At  the  first  jar,  the  passengers,  knowing  but  too  well 
its  fatal  import,  sprang  from  their  berths.  Then  came 
the  cry  of  "Cut  away,"  followed  by  the  crash  of  falling 
timbers,  and  the  thunder  of  the  seas,  as  they  broke  across 
the  deck.  In  a  moment  more,  the  cabin  skylight  was 


THE    WRECK.  343 

dashed  in  pieces  by  the  breakers,  and  the  spray,  pouring 
down  like  a  cataract,  put  out  the  lights,  while  the  cabin 
door  was  wrenched  from  its  fastenings,  and  the  \vaves 
swept  in  and  out.  One  scream,  one  only,  was  heard 
from  Margaret's  state-room;  and  Sumner  and  Mrs.  Hasty, 
meeting  in  the  cabin,  clasped  hands,  with  these  few  but 
touching  words  :  "  We  must  die."  "  Let  us  die  calmly, 
then."  "I  hope  so,  Mrs.  Hasty."  It  was- in  the  gray 
dusk,  and  amid  the  awful  tumult,  that  the  companions  in 
misfortune  met.  The  side  of  the  cabin  to  the  leeward 
had  already  settled  under  water ;  and  furniture,  trunks, 
and  fragments  of  the  skylight  were  floating  to  and 
fro;  while  the  inclined  position  of  the  floor  made  it 
difficult  to  stand ;  and  every  sea,  as  it  broke  over  the 
bulwarks,  splashed  in  through  the  open  roof.  The 
windward  cabin-walls,  however,  still  yielded  partial 
shelter,  and  against  it,  seated  side  by  side,  half  leaning 
backwards,  with  feet  braced  upon  the  long  table,  they 
awaited  what  next  should  come.  At  first,  Nino,  alarmed 
at  the  uproar,  the  darkness,  and  the  rushing  water,  while 
shivering  with  the  wet,  cried  passionately;  but  soon  his 
mother,  wrapping  him  in  such  garments  as  were  at  hand 
and  folding  him  to  her  bosom,  sang  him  to  sleep.  Celeste 
too  was  in  an  agony  of  terror,  till  Ossoli,  with  soothing 
words  and  a  long  and  fervent  prayer,  restored  her  to  self- 
control  and  trust.  Then  calmly  they  rested,  side  by 
side,  exchanging  kindly  partings  and  sending  messages 
to  friends,  if  any  should  survive  to  be  their  bearer. 
Meanwhile,  the  boats  having  been  swamped  or  carried 
away,  and  the  carpenter's  tools  washed  overboard,  the 
crew  had  retreated  to  the  top-gallant  forecastle ;  but,  as 
the  passengers  saw  and  heard  nothing  of  them,  they 
supposed  that  the  officers  and  crew  had  deserted  the 


344  HOMEWARD. 

ship,  and  that  they  were  left  alone.     Thus  passed  three 
hours. 

At  length,  about  seven,  as  there  were  signs  that  the 
cabin  would  soon  break  up,  and  any  death  seemed  pref- 
erable to  that  of  being  crushed  among  the  ruins,  Mrs. 
Hasty  made  her  way  to  the  door,  and,  looking  out  at 
intervals  between  the  seas  as  they  swept  across  the  ves- 
sel amidships,  saw  some  one  standing  by  the  foremast. 
His  face  was  toward  the  shore.  She  screamed  and 
beckoned,  but  her  voice  was  lost  amid  the  roar  of  the 
wind  and  breakers,  and  her  gestures  were  unnoticed. 
Soon,  however,  Davis,  the  mate,  through  the  door  of  the 
forecastle  caught  sight  of  her,  and,  at  once  comprehend- 
ing the  danger,  summoned  the  men  to  go  to  the  rescue. 
At  first  none  dared  to  risk  with  him  the  perilous  attempt ; 
but,  cool  and  resolute,  he  set  forth  by  himself,  and  now 
holding  to  the  bulwarks,  now  stooping  as  the  waves 
combed  over,  he  succeeded  in  reaching  the  cabin.  Two 
sailors,  emboldened  by  his  example,  followed.  Prepara- 
tions were  instantly  made  to  conduct  the  passengers  to 
the  forecastle,  which,  as  being  more  strongly  built  and 
lying  further  up  the  sands,  was  the  least  exposed  part  of 
the  ship.  Mrs.  Hasty  volunteered  to  go  the  first.  With 
one  hand  clasped  by  Davis,  while  with  the  other  each 
grasped  the  rail,  they  started,  a  sailor  moving  close 
behind.  But  hardly  had  they  taken  three  steps,  when  a 
sea  broke  loose  her  hold,  and  swept  her  into  the  hatch- 
way. "Let  me  go,"  she  cried,  "your  life  is  important 
to  all  on  board."  But  cheerily,  and  with  a  smile,*  he 
answered,  "Not  quite  yet;"  and,  seizing  in  his  teeth  her 
long  hair,  as  it  floated  past  him,  he  caught  with  both 

*  Mrs.  Hasty's  own  "words  while  describing  the  incident. 


THE    WRECK.  345 

hands  at  some  near  support,  and,  aided  by  the  seaman, 
set  her  once  again  upon  her  feet.  A  few  moments  more 
of  struggle  brought  them  safely  through.  In  turn,  each 
of  the  passengers  was  helped  thus  laboriously  across  the 
deck,  though,  as  the  broken  rail  and  cordage  had  at  one 
place  fallen  in  the  way,  the  passage  was  dangerous  and 
difficult  in  the  extreme.  Angelino  was  borne  in  a 
canvas  bag,  slung  round  the  neck  of  a  sailor.  Within 
the  forecastle,  which  was  comparatively  dry  and  shel- 
tered, they  now  seated  themselves,  and,  wrapped  in  the 
loose  overcoats  of  the  seamen,  regained  some  warmth. 
Three  times  more,  however,  the  mate  made  his  way  to 
the  cabin;  once,  to  save  her  late  husband's  watch,  for 
Mrs.  Hasty ;  again  for  some  doubloons,  money-drafts,  and 
rings  in  Margaret's  desk;  and,  finally,  to  procure  a  bottle 
of  wine  and  a  drum  of  figs  for  their  refreshment.  It  was 
after  his  last  return,  that  Margaret  said  to  Mrs.  Hasty, 
"There  still  remains  what,  if  I  live,  will  be  of  more 
value  to  me  than  anything,"  referring,  probably,  to  her 
manuscript  on  Italy;  but  it  seemed  too  selfish  to  ask 
their  brave  preserver  to  run  the  risk  ag^in. 

There  was  opportunity  now  to  learn  their  situation, 
and  to  discuss  the  chances  of  escape.  At  the  distance  of 
only  a  few  hundred  yards,  appeared  the  shore,  —  a  lonely 
waste  of  sand-hills,  so  far  as  could  be  seen  through  the 
spray  and  driving  rain.  But  men  had  been  early  ob- 
served, gazing  at  the  wreck,  and,  later,  a  wagon  had  been 
drawn  upon  the  beach.  There  was  no  sign  of  a  life- 
boat, however,  or  of  any  attempt  at  rescue ;  and,  about 
nine  o'clock,  it  was  determined  that  some  one  should 
try  to  land  by  swimming,  and,  if  possible,  get  help. 
Though  it  seemed  almost  sure  death  to  trust  one's  self 
to  the  surf,  a  sailor,  with  a  life-preserver,  jumped  over- 


346  HOMEWARD. 

board,  and,  notwithstanding  a  current  drifting  him  to 
leeward,  was  seen  to  reach  the  shore.  A  second,  with 
the  aid  of  a  spar,  followed  in  safety ;  and  Sumner,  en- 
couraged by  their  success,  sprang  over  also;  but,  either 
struck  by  some  piece  of  the  wreck,  or  unable  to  combat 
with  the  waves,  he  sank.  Another  hour  or  more  passed 
by;  but  though  persons  were  busy  gathering  into  carts 
whatever  spoil  was  stranded,  no  life-boat  yet  appeared ; 
and,  after  much  deliberation,  the  plan  was  proposed, — 
and,  as  it  was  then  understood,  agreed  to, —  that  the 
passengers  should  attempt  to  land,  each  seated  upon  a 
plank,  and  grasping  handles  of  rope,  while  a  sailor  swam 
behind.  Here,  too,  Mrs.  Hasty  was  the  first  to  venture, 
under  the  guard  of  Davis.  Once  and  again,  during  their 
passage,  the  plank  was  rolled  wholly  over,  and  once  and 
again  was  righted,  with  its  bearer,  by  the  dauntless 
steersman ;  and  when,  at  length,  tossed  by  the  surf  upon 
the  sands,  the  half-drowned  woman  still  holding,  as  in  a 
death-struggle,  to  the  ropes,  was  about  to  be  swept  back 
by  the  undertow,  he  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and,  with 
the  assistance  of  a  bystander,  placed  her  high  upon  the 
beach.  Thus  twice  in  one  day  had  he  perilled  his  own 
life  to  save  that  of  the  widow  of  his  captain,  and  even 
over  that  dismal  tragedy  his  devotedness  casts  one  gleam 
of  light. 

Now  came  Margaret's  turn.  But  she  steadily  refused 
to  be  separated  from  Ossoli  and  Angelo.  On  a  raft  with 
them,  she  would  have  boldly  encountered  the  surf,  but 
alone  she  would  not  go.  Probably,  she  had  appeared  to 
assent  to  the  plan  for  escaping  upon  planks,  with  the 
view  of  inducing  Mrs.  Hasty  to  trust  herself  to  the  care 
of  the  best  man  on  board ;  very  possibly,  also,  she  had 
never  learned  the  result  of  their  attempt,  as,  seated 


THE    WRECK.  34"7 

within  the  forecastle,  she  could  not  see  the  beach.  She 
knew,  too,  that  if  a  life-boat  could  be  sent,  Davis  was 
one  who  would  neglect  no  effort  to  expedite  its  coming. 
While  she  was  yet  declining  all  persuasions,  word  was 
given  from  the  deck,  that  the  life-boat  had  finally  ap- 
peared. For  a  moment,  the  news  lighted  up  again  the 
flickering  fire  of  hope.  They  might  yet  be  saved,  —  be 
saved  together !  Alas !  to  the  experienced  eyes  of  the 
sailors  it  too  soon  became  evident  that  there  was  no 
attempt  to  launch  or  man  her.  The  last  chance  of  aid 
from  shore,  then,  was  gone  utterly.  They  must  rely  on 
their  own  strength,  or  perish.  And  if  ever  they  were  to 
escape,  the  time  had  come ;  for,  at  noon,  the  storm  had 
somewhat  lulled ;  but  already  the  tide  had  turned,  and 
it  was  plain  that  the  wreck  could  not  hold  together 
through  another  flood.  In  this  emergency,  the  com- 
manding officer,  who  until  now  had  remained  at  his 
post,  once  more  appealed  to  Margaret  to  try  to  escape, — 
urging  that  the  ship  would  inevitably  break  up  soon; 
that  it  was  mere  suicide  to  remain  longer ;  that  he  did 
not  feel  free  to  sacrifice  the  lives  of  the  crew,  or  to  throw 
away  his  own;  finally,  that  he  would  himself  take 
Angelo,  and  that  sailors  should  go  with  Celeste,  Ossoli, 
and  herself.  But,  as  before,  Margaret  decisively  declared 
that  she  would  not  be  parted  from  her  husband  or  her 
child.  The  order  was  then  given  to  "save  themselves," 
and  all  but  four  of  the  crew  jumped  over,  several  of 
whom,  together  with  the  commander,  reached  shore 
alive,  though  severely  bruised  and  wounded  by  the 
drifting  fragments.  There  is  a  sad  consolation  in  believ- 
ing that,  if  Margaret  judged  it  to  be  impossible  that  the 
three  should  escape,  she  in  all  probability  was  right.  It 
required  a  most  rare  combination  of  courage,  promptness 


348  HOMEWARD. 

and  persistency,  to  do  what  Davis  had  done  for  Mrs. 
Hasty.  We  may  not  conjecture  the  crowd  of  thoughts 
which  influenced  the  lovers,  the  parents,  in  this  awful 
crisis;  but  doubtless  one  wish  was  ever  uppermost, — 
that,  God  willing,  the  last  hour  might  come  for  ALL,  if  it 
must  come  for  one. 

It  was  now  past  three  o'clock,  and  as,  with  the  rising 
tide,  the  gale  swelled  once  more  to  its  former  violence, 
the  remnants  of  the  barque  fast  yielded  to  the  resistless 
waves.  The  cabin  went  by  the  board,  the  after-parts 
broke  up,  and  the  stern  settled  out  of  sight.  Soon,  too, 
the  forecastle  was  filled  with  water,  and  the  helpless 
little  band  were  driven  to  the  deck,  where  they  clustered 
round  the  foremast.  Presently,  even  this  frail  support 
was  loosened  from  the  hull,  and  rose  and  fell  with  every 
billow.  It  was  plain  to  all  that  the  final  moment  drew 
swiftly  nigh.  Of  the  four  seamen  Avho  still  stood  by  the 
passengers,  three  were  as  efficient  as  any  among  the 
crew  of  the  Elizabeth.  These  were  the  steward,  car- 
penter, and  cook.  The  fourth  was  an  old  sailor,  who, 
broken  down  by  hardships  and  sickness,  was  going  home 
to  die.  These  men  were  once  again  persuading  Mar- 
garet, Ossoli  and  Celeste  to  try  the  planks,  which  they 
held  ready  in  the  lee  of  the  ship,  and  the  steward,  by 
whom  Nino  was  so  much  beloved,  had  just  taken  the 
little  fellow  in  his  arms,  with  the  pledge  that  he  would 
save  him  or  die,  when  a  sea  struck  the  forecastle,  and 
the  foremast  fell,  carrying  with  it  the  deck,  and  all  upon 
it.  The  steward  and  Angelino  were  washed  upon  the 
beach,  both  dead,  though  warm,  some  twenty  minutes 
after.  The  cook  and  carpenter  were  thrown  far  upon 
the  foremast,  and  saved  themselves  by  swimming. 
Celeste  and  Ossoli  caught  for  a  moment  by  the  rigging, 


THE    WRECK.  349 

but  the  next  wave  swallowed  them  up.  Margaret 
sank  at  once.  When  last  seen,  she  had  been  seated  at 
the  foot  of  the  foremast,  still  clad  in  her  white  night- 
dress, with  her  hair  fallen  loose  upon  her  shoulders.  It 
was  over,  —  that  twelve  hours'  communion,  face  to 
face,  with  Death !  It  was  over !  and  the  prayer  was 
granted,  "  that  Ossoli,  Angelo,  and  I,  may  go  together, 
and  that  the  anguish  may  be  brief!  " 

****** 

A  passage  from  the  journal  of  a  friend  of  Margaret, 
whom  the  news  of  the  wreck  drew  at  once  to  the  scene, 
shall  close  this  mournful  story :  — 

"  The  hull  of  the  Elizabeth,  with  the  foremast  still 
bound  to  it  by  cordage,  lies  so  near  the  shore,  that  it 
seems  as  if  a  dozen  oar-strokes  would  carry  a  boat  along- 
side. And  as  one  looks  at  it  glittering  in  the  sunshine, 
and  rocking  gently  in  the  swell,  it  is  hard  to  feel  recon- 
ciled to  our  loss.  Seven  resolute  men  might  have  saved 
every  soul  on  board.  I  know  how  different  was  the 
prospect  on  that  awful  morning,  when  the  most  violent 
gale  that  had  visited  our  coast  for  years,  drove  the  bil- 
lows up  to  the  very  foot  of  the  sand-hills,  and  when  the 
sea  in  foaming  torrents  swept  across  the  beach  into  the 
bay  behind.  Yet  I  cannot  but  reluctantly  declare  my 
judgment,  that  this  terrible  tragedy  is  to  be  attributed, 
so  far  as  human  agency  is  looked  at,  to  our  wretched 
system,  or  no-system,  of  life-boats.  The  life-boat  at 
Fire  Island  light-house,  three  miles  distant  only,  was 
not  brought  to  the  beach  till  between  twelve  and  one 
o'clock,  more  than  eight  hours  after  the  Elizabeth  was 
stranded,  and  more  than  six  hours  after  the  wreck  could 
easily  have  been  seen.  When  the  life-boat  did  finally 

VOL.  IT.  30 


350  HOMEWARD. 

come,  the  beachmen  could  not  be  persuaded  to  launch 
or  man  her.  And  even  the  mortar,  by  which  a  rope 
could  and  should  have  been  thrown  on  board,  was  not 
once  fired.  A  single  lesson  like  this  might  certainly 
suffice  to  teach  the  government,  insurance  companies, 
and  humane  societies,  the  urgent  need,  that  to  every 
life-boat  should  be  attached  ORGANIZED  CREWS,  stimulated 
to  do  their  work  faithfully,  by  ample  pay  for  actual  ser- 
vice, generous  salvage-fees  for  cargoes  and  persons,  and 
a  pension  to  surviving  friends  where  life  is  lost.  *  *  * 

"  No  trace  has  yet  been  found  of  Margaret's  manu- 
script on  Italy,  though  the  denials  of  the  wreckers  as  to 
having  seen  it,  are  not  in  the  least  to  be  depended  on. 
For,  greedy  after  richer  spoil,  they  might  well  have 
overlooked  a  mass  of  written  paper;  and,  even  had  they 
kept  it,  they  would  be  slow  to  give  up  what  would  so 
clearly  prove  their  participation  in  the  heartless  robbery, 
that  is  now  exciting  such  universal  horror  and  indigna- 
tion. Possibly  it  was  washed  away  before  reaching  the 
shore,  as  several  of  the  trunks,  it  is  said,  were  open  and 
empty,  when  thrown  upon  the  beach.  But  it  is  sad  to 
think,  that  very  possibly  the  brutal  hands  of  pirates 
may  have  tossed  to  the  winds,  or  scattered  on  the  sands, 
pages  so  rich  with  experience  and  life.  The  only  papers 
of  value  saved,  were  the  love-letters  of  Margaret  and 
Ossoli.* 

"It  is  a  touching  coincidence,  that  the  only  one  of 
Margaret's  treasures  which  reached  the  shore,  was  the 
lifeless  form  of  Angelino.  When  the  body,  stripped  of 
every  rag  by  the  waves,  was  rescued  from  the  surf,  a 
sailor  took  it  reverently  in  his  arms,  and,  wrapping  it  in 

*  The  letters  from  which  extracts  were  quoted  in  the  previous  chapter. 


THE    WRECK.  351 

his  neckcloth,  bore  it  to  the  nearest  house.  There, 
when  washed,  and  dressed  in  a  child's  frock,  found  in 
Margaret's  trunk,  it  was  laid  upon  a  bed ;  and  as  the 
rescued  seamen  gathered  round  their  late  playfellow 
and  pet,  there  were  few  dry  eyes  in  the  circle.  Several 
of  them  mourned  for  Nino,  as  if  he  had  been  their  own ; 
and  even  the  callous  wreckers  were  softened,  for  the 
moment,  by  a  sight  so  full  of  pathetic  beauty.  The 
next  day,  borne  upon  their  shoulders  in  a  chest,  which 
one  of  the  sailors  gave  for  a  coffin,  it  was  buried  in  a 
hollow  among  the  sand  heaps.  As  I  stood  beside  the 
lonely  little  mound,  it  seemed  that  never  was  seen  a  more 
affecting  type  of  orphanage.  Around,  wiry  and  stiff, 
were  scanty  spires  of  beach-grass;  near  by,  dwarf- 
cedars,  blown  flat  by  wintry  winds,  stood  like  grim 
guardians ;  only  at  the  grave-head  a  stunted  wild-rose, 
wilted  and  scraggy,  was  struggling  for  existence^ 
Thoughts  came  of  the  desolate  childhood  of  many  a 
little  one  in  this  hard  world ;  and  there  was  joy  in  the 
assurance,  that  Angelo  was  neither  motherless  nor 
fatherless,  and  that  Margaret  and  her  husband  were 
not  childless  in  that  New  World,  which  so  suddenly 
they  had  entered  together. 

"To-morrow,  Margaret's  mother,  sister,  and  brothers 
will  remove  Nino's  body  to  New  England." 

***** 

Was  this,  then,  thy  welcome  home?  A  howling 
hurricane,  the  pitiless  sea,  wreck  on  a  sand-bar,  an  idle 
life-boat,  beach- pirates,  and  not  one  friend !  In  those 
twelve  hours  of  agony,  did  the  last  scene  appear  but  as 
the  fitting  close  for  a  life  of  storms,  where  no  safe 
haven  was  ever  in  reach ;  where  thy  richest  treasures 
were  so  often  stranded;  where  even  the  dearest  and 


352  HOMEWARD. 

nearest  seemed  always  too  far  off,  or  just  too  late,  to 
help. 

Ah,  no!  not  so.  The  clouds  were  gloomy  on  the 
waters,  truly;  but  their  tops  were  golden  in  the  sun. 
It  was  in  the  Father's  House  that  welcome  awaited 
thee. 

"  Glory  to  God  !  to  God !  he  saith, 
Knowledge  by  suffering  entereth, 
And  Life  is  perfected  by  Death." 


2/ 


lIFORt 


University  of  California  Library 
Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


8 

[I' 

4WKJULl4i9gg 

RICH  W-BRt 

NOV151997 


IGEI& 


051938 
AC  NOV  0  2 1 


ACMAY  n  12000 


roswiBW 


1*3     *Q 
" 


